


Cashing in My Bad Luck: After

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [6]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Bathing, Dom Phil Coulson, Framework, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Nipple Play, Other fandom characters twisted for my own nefarious purposes, PTSD, Recovery, Reluctant Master, Sub Clint Barton, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: The only nights harder than the ones where he thinks about Clint are the nights he thinks about Jean. Nights when he realizes when it comes to Clint, there aren’t any lines he won’t cross.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: I Will Wait for You [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 60
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well some nights, I wish that this all would end  
> 'Cause I could use some friends for a change  
> And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again  
> Some nights, I always win  
> I always win  
> — Fun.: Some Nights

Phil spends every free moment looking for a sign, any sign, that Barton’s still alive. His tracker had been dark by the time Phil had made it back to the van but Phil knows more than anyone how resilient and capable Barton is and Phil refuses to give up hope.

Phil’s used his Voice more in the last month than he has in his entire life up to this point, for all the good it’s done him. He’s only managed to tag a couple of Quinn’s associates and Phil can’t Make them tell him what they don’t know.

Phil had tried Ordering one of them, Dr. Roth, into setting up a meet with someone who might know something. Dr. Roth had not only turned up dead three days before the exchange, so had his entire protective detail; and they had been three of Phil’s best. He had personally trained Carlisle; he would have put her up against any six other agents and she had been so integral to SHIELD’s training program that he wasn’t going to tap her, but knowing who it was for she had volunteered. She had almost been as good as Barton was.

Is. As good as Barton is.

At least her death had been a professional kill shot. Dr. Roth hadn’t been nearly so lucky. As messages went it was a seven story screen in Times Square and the message had been received loud and clear by Quinn’s associates, one and all choosing to end their own lives rather than risk giving up any details of Quinn’s operation.

It was enough to tempt him to buy stock in cyanide pills.

Phil’s staring at another literal dead end when a new message shows up on one of the back channels, an open message for Hawkeye.

**««——»»**

**Trickshot**

Barton’s brother.

That’s the entire message and it takes a bit of research but it turns out it’s vagabond code telling Clint to ‘meet him in the next town’. Phil sends a private reply as Restraint.

**F2F dx?**

Phil gets a reply immediately.

**What kind of data exchange? What’s your interest in Hawkeye?**

Barney Garnett is direct in a way that reminds Phil of Clint and the constant ache in his chest sharpens for a moment.

**Mutually beneficial.**

**You the same Restraint keeping him tied up for the last year or so?**

He also has his brother’s terrible sense of humor.

**Yes.**

**What was the name of the bar in Odessa?**

What the hell? Phil knows that Barton is close to his brother but he knew how important it was to keep that mission under wraps and Phil finds it hard to believe he let anything slip.

**What did he tell you about Odessa?**

**You made a hell of an impression. He kept a matchbook from your date. He’s sentimental like that.**

It’s a relief that Barton hadn’t broken opsec. Phil chooses not to examine the other emotions the information stirs up.

**Corvin.**

**I’ll be in New York on Saturday. There’s a place on Henry called Brooklyn’s. Be there at noon and ask for Gracie’s section. Tell her you’re meeting with a fellow American for coffee.**

~~~

Brooklyn’s Old Fashioned Soda Fountain is a diner that’s been around since the twenties and if you can believe the press has the best milkshakes in the world. Everything is chrome and red vinyl, the milkshake mixer and seltzer tap look original, and walking in through the door and onto the black and white checkered linoleum is like stepping into the past.

It’s the type of place Clint would love, nostalgic without being kitschy, and it’s no wonder that Garnett chose it as a meeting place.

It’s also on the corner and has full picture windows, allowing clear sight lines from every angle.

Phil feels the twitch on the back of his neck that says he’s being watched, which isn’t surprising. He’d only been fifteen minutes early and while he hasn’t spotted Garnett he’s willing to bet the sub has been watching the corner for an hour, at least.

Phil enters the dinner at exactly 12 noon and asks the teenager behind the counter for Gracie’s section. She points it out with a nod and Phil takes a seat facing away from the door, giving Garnett both the benefit of the better seat and sending a warning that Phil’s confident enough in his own expertise that he’s willing to sit with his back to the main entrance.

Gracie is an older sub, late sixties at least, with short once blond hair in large wavy curls and her faded grey eyes have seen it all from under their shock of blue eyeshadow. Her skin is pale and wrinkled in the way of someone who spent too much time in their youth in the sun and now regrets it, her rouge bright across her cheekbones. Her collar is worn but well cared for and her peach waitress uniform and matching cap are starched within an inch of their lives.

He tells her the code phrase and her thin cherry red lips crack into what could charitably be called a smile, showing off cigarette stained dentures. She brings two cups of coffee that smell almost as good as his Dad’s. Phil adds a splash of hazelnut creamer to his and before he finishes stirring Garnett’s taking the seat across from him.

He’s as tall as Barton but with a good ten pounds of muscle, linebacker to Barton’s quarterback. His auburn hair is just long enough to fall over his forehead and nearly into his baby blue eyes; he brushes it back with a familiar gesture and, like Phil does a dozen times a day, he feels a pang as he thinks, ‘ _Clint.’_

Garnett tosses a heavy coat to the seat, uncovering an unbuttoned Hawaii shirt with red hibiscuses over a paler red background, a white tank top, and khakis; a sharp contrast to Phil’s hand stitched leather jacket and gloves paired with a designer suit and tie, all in shades of black and grey.

“What can you tell me?” Garnett asks without preamble.

“We were on a job together in Malta, day after Christmas. Someone tipped them off we were coming and took Hawkeye. Every time I think I’m close to getting a lead it turns to smoke. I’ve got a mole problem and I don’t know who I can trust. I need outside eyes and ears and Hawkeye says you not only have resources but that you can be trusted. That _he_ trusts you. And he’s not one to give his trust easily.”

“‘S’the only reason you got this meet, bucko. For some reason, you’re on that list too. Unfortunately, you’ve had more recent contact then I have. Last we spoke he was passing through Amsterdam on one of your jobs. We had a scheduled contact that he missed,” Garnett shrugs, “Which happens but after a coupla weeks and still nothin’ I started to get worried. I haven’t been able to get a line on him.”

“I can give you a name to track but you can’t let anyone else know. Don’t trust—”

“Fancy seeing you here. Did you hear? Six more weeks of winter.”

Oh, no. No, no, no. Phil puts a hand half over his eyes and tilts his head towards the window, trying to shield his face without looking like he’s trying to hide. Phil glares at Garnett, willing him to brush her off before she gets any closer and praying that it works.

“This isn’t a set up, just a coincidence. Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of her,” Garnett says softly; meaning, _‘Please don’t start a gun fight in my favorite diner.’_

“I don’t mind a little cold, New York winters have nothing on Iowa,” Garnett makes a subtle all clear sign that Phil recognizes.

“Well neither one can hold a candle to Wisconsin,” she says, leaning against one of the bar stools just behind Phil and shifting in a way that tells Phil she’s given a counter signal, “The flame would freeze.”

“You here for the free Groundhog Day coffee, too?” Garnett says, this time with more of a shooing motion, but Phil knows it’s too late. She obviously senses something’s off and is angling for a look at Phil.

“Actually, this is the first I’ve been able to get out of the house alone since Scott was born and I’ve been dying for a chocolate ma— Phil? What did you do to your face?!”

Phil scratches at his beard. The first couple of weeks he had been so frantic to find Barton he hadn’t bothered to shave and now it’s become a superstition, like if he breaks down and shaves it’s a sign that he’s given up.

Shelly’s wearing her short sleeve rust ‘Choose Your Weapon’ rock paper scissors shirt over a long sleeved black shirt and under one of Derek’s oversized plaid shirts that she’s rolled up to her elbows; she has a heavy down jacket that’s the same shade of grey as her hoodie, both of which are over her arm and she has on a soft pair jeans and sneakers. Her eyes have a bruised look to them and her hair is a little frayed but she looks happy. Tired but happy.

Phil makes a snap decision; he could try to convince Shelly to play along with mistaking him for someone else but honestly, if he has his way Shelly and Garnett are going to be in-laws one day and if he does that now things are going to be awkward later. Besides, he knew he was on this path the moment he asked Garnett for a face to face meeting and he could really use Shelly’s help in trying to track down Barton.

Phil stands up and gives his sister a hug, “Shelly. You may as well join us.”

“Shelly?” Garnett says, raising an eyebrow as Phil scoots into the booth and lets Shelly steal his coffee.

“How do you know Agent Garnett, Phil? What’s going on.”

“I, uh, should probably start by telling you I don’t really work for Triskelion.”

“Oh. My. God! You’re finally going to tell me! Jesus, if you say you’ve been with the FBI this entire time I will _literally_ die of embarrassment.”

“I— what?”

“Oh, come on, Phil. ‘Vice President of Human Resources’. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Wait, does everyone,” meaning the rest of the family, “Know?”

“Know what?” Garnett asks.

“Hold on, _you_ don’t know? What’s Counterintelligence want with Phil if you didn’t know he’s a spy?”

“A little louder, Shell. I don’t think they heard you in K'un-Lun.”

“Could one of you, please, for the love of Crackerjacks tell me what the hell is going on?!”

“Right,” Phil says, “Agent Garnett, my name is Phil Coulson, Shelly is my sister. Shelly, and please, _please_ , don’t overreact: Agent Garnett’s family name is Barton.”

“Barton? Barton as in Clint Barton? As in the Clint Barton you’re so in love with you can see it from space? The Clint Barton you're going to collar and have beautiful amazing babies with?”

“What the hell!”

“And this is precisely what I meant about overreacting.”

“Oh, come on. The Macallan was out on Mom’s desk the night you rushed out on your,” she finger quotes, “‘HR emergency’. I know what that means. She had the same drink with me when I told her I was going to collar Derek.”

“I didn’t— That's not exactly what happened and we’re getting side tracked. Shelly, Barton’s missing.”

“What?!” Shelly yelps, “Since when? What happened?”

“Can we back up a second to the part where you’re gonna to collar my brother?”

“I’m not— I was going to ask him after the op,” Phil subtly touches his pocket, seeking the familiar weight of the buckle. He knows he should put it somewhere safe but sometimes he feels like if he can just hold it he can will Clint to come home, “I don’t know if he’ll say yes. It’s not something we ever talked about. And if he doesn’t want it I still want him on whatever terms he sets.”

“Wow,” Garnett says, “WOW. He said he was seeing someone but I never thought. Just. Wow.”

“Okay, now that everyone’s cards are on the table— actually, wait. Phil, you don’t work for the FBI, do you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny. I shouldn’t be confirming I’m in intelligence at all but I will do anything, and I mean _anything_ , to get Barton back.”

“Hmmm,” Shelly gets a speculative look in her eye and Phil can tell that she’s not going to let the agency thing drop for long.

He considers asking Maria to do a deep dive into his sister. Maybe it’s time to see if Fury’s willing to read her in. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about recruiting her over the years, it wouldn’t hurt for SHIELD to have another agent in the FBI and this just may be the excuse he needs.

“As I was telling Agent Garnett—”

“Call me ‘Barney’.”

Phil feels the shadow of a smile cross his face, the first smile he can remember in weeks, “I will, if you’ll call me Phil.”

“And you may as well call me Shelly, seeing as we’re practically family.

“Ahem. Well then, as I was telling Barney, I think I have a mole on my end. The Malta op wasn’t an internal secret and I’ve only recently had my suspicions.

“You’re on a molehunt,” Shelly says, her eyes lighting up.

Phil nods, “I’m working on that from my end. I’m hoping the mole might lead me to Barton. In the meantime, I want to send both of you what I’ve been able to gather so far.”

“You should come over to dinner tonight. You too, Shelly. Bring Derek and the baby. Frannie’s almost two, I’m sure we have some of her hand me downs that Simone would be thrilled to pass on to you.”

Barney turns back to Phil, “We can let your mole think it’s a family affair. I’m assuming whoever you work for,” Barney raises an eyebrow but Phil doesn’t rise to the bait, “Will figure that your cover with Shelly is still intact, so they’re less likely to think I know anything either.”

“God, dinner sounds great. Derek’s as antsy as I am to get out of the house and the clothing will be a godsend. I love the little cookie but he goes through clothes like a wolf through a flock of sheep,” Shelly starts texting, “I’ll let Derek know about dinner. I’m on leave for a couple more weeks but I can start making some subtle inquiries when I get home.”

“You? Subtle?” Phil looks at her with disbelief.

“I can do subtle,” Shelly says defensively.

“You wouldn’t know subtle if it hit you in the face with a neon crowbar.”

Shelly places her hand on Phil’s arm, “I can do subtle,” she says seriously, “Trust me, Cheese. We’ll find your sub.”

“I’ll have Simone call both of you on your main lines to finalize the details, we’ll make a bit of a show of it. In the meantime, I’ll send you what I have through the back channel. And if either you find my brother first tell him to call me or I’ll kick his ass.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns those tags.

Phil’s in Alaska, tracking a lead on Barton and freezing his ass off when he gets a call that immediately gives him a headache. 

“This better be important.”

“Hello tall, dark, and just fuck me already; I’m in kind of a bind. There’s a serious amount of blood here. Like so much blood. I’m hurt. Hurt bad. I think I might be dying?”

“You’re still in LA?” Phil starts thinking of what resources he has in the area.

“Oh, wait. That’s not my blood.”

Phil sighs, “What do you want, Deadpool?”

“Hey, did you know you could stab a guy with a brick? You’d think bricks would only work as a blunt instrument but I guess it goes to show, anything can be stabby with a dream in your heart and enough strategically applied force.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait! Wait-wait-wait! I think I’ve got a lead on that thing.”

“That thing?”

“Yeah, you know. The _thing._ ”

“That’s what the dead drop is for, Wilson.”

Phil knows for a fact that someone has the ability to listen in on his calls. It’s got to be someone highly placed enough and skilled enough to hide any traces from Phil. 

He’s eliminated the majority of the people he works with, the ones that are left he has a hard time believing would betray him. He trusts them all with his life, but he can’t trust them with Clint’s. Not even Fury is above his suspicion at this point. Which means he really is going crazy. 

“No time. How fast can you get to the San Juan Islands?”

It’s gonna take Phil the better part of an hour to make it back to the ‘jet and then a couple more hours to get to a local airstrip, “Three hours, give or take.”

“I overheard Glock and Cock mention the Framework while they were shooting at me, and about needing to get back to their cabin. Rumor has it their place is in San Juan. It’s thin but maybe it will help you find your sub.”

Which gives him maybe four hours to get there and see what he can find before they show.

“Thanks, Wade.”

“It’s like my favorite Hallmark card says, ‘Nothing says thank you like a threesome’.”

“Try not to get too much blood on your AAR this time. It makes them hard to read. Not to mention tacky.”

“Me? Tacky? I’d be offended if I knew how to be offended. Besides, you know I finally got the hang of sending them electronically. And I’m very conscientious of other people’s keyboard. If yours is still tacky that’s on you. Though, I have to say it’d be much better on me. Seriously, you get your boy back and give me a call and we can give this triad a shot. I’m almost as good at dominating as I am at subm—”

“Goodbye, Wade,” Phil disconnects, already on the move. 

~~~

The cabin is ostentatious but secluded. There’s a carport instead of a garage, only one of the bays has a vehicle. Phil sneaks in close and touches the Yukon’s hood. 

Ice cold. 

Looks like he beat the Winchesters here. He’s hoping to get in and out with any intel they have on the Framework and leave no one the wiser. 

Their security is impressive and it takes Phil several precious minutes to bypass it. There’s no reason not to go in through the front door but when he does he stops short. 

There’s a naked sub kneeling on the hardwood floor, forehead on the ground and arms outstretched. His shaggy black hair hangs around his head and he’s shivering. There are thick metal bands around his ankles and wrists, with heavy gauge chains at least a half inch thick linking them all together. The chains look like they weigh several pounds each. He has an elaborate wing tattoo flowing from his shoulders to his ankles with several feathers that appear to have been removed by way of branding iron.

“Welcome home, Masters,” he says in a gravelly voice, with a tinge of something that makes Phil realize he must be a switch. It sounds like he’s Scarred his Voice.

Phil’s heard of switches, and even some doms, who choose to have their Voices surgically Muted— hell, there was a dark period in Phil’s life where he had considered it for himself, but he’s never actually met anyone who’s gone through it.

Phil had his gun drawn the moment he knew he wasn’t alone and he keeps it steadily pointed at the switch. He knows better than to underestimate someone just because they’re on their knees. 

“Sit up, please.”

The switch complies and gasps when he sees Phil, “You're not my Masters. You… you shouldn’t be here, Sir. It’s not allowed.”

Even sitting up he keeps his head bowed. Phil isn’t sure how much of it is habit and how much of it is the weight of the chain connected to his collar, stark block letters spelling out ‘ANGEL’ across his throat. His eyes, for all that they’re a stunning shade of blue, are dull and lifeless, filled with nothing but desperate misery.

“No, I’m not. But if you do exactly what I say, you’ll be fine.”

Angel shakes his head, “No. This is wrong,” he tilts his head, “Is this a test?”

Phil frowns. If he says yes, will Angel be more of a help or a hindrance? Phil thinks it’s 50/50 and decides to go with his gut but he’s prepared to Order the switch’s compliance if necessary. 

The ever present monster inside him, close to the surface these last few weeks like never before, smiles and licks its chops as he feels the echo of Jeanie’s last Words, Commanded with the final, devastating force of her Will and he teeters on the edge that he’s been living on. 

‘The world is ours,’ she had Said and if it hadn’t been for Clint, he would have fallen over that edge. 

No. Not fallen. 

Jumped.

“Yes, it’s a test.”

Angel tenses but only for a split second before dipping his head forward and Phil is ashamed at how difficult it is to force down the Drive to use his Voice anyway, to make things just a little easier on himself. 

No one would have to know.

He chains down the beast with the fear that he’s becoming something he doesn’t recognize.

Something that _Clint_ won’t recognize.

No, he can’t let that happen. He’s become over reliant on his Voice. He has to stop while he can and he shores up his Will against himself, vowing to only use his Voice when absolutely necessary. 

“May I know the rules, Sir? Please, I don’t want to die anymore.”

“What?” Phil asks in confusion.

“I don’t want to be a bad angel. I want to be a good angel. Please. I don’t want to be reset.”

“I don’t— I’m sure you’re a very good Angel. Can you show me where your Masters keep their computers?”

Angel looks up, meeting Phil’s eyes full on for the first time and there’s anger there, “No. You’re not here for me to obey.”

And with that Angel lunges for Phil, the chains clattering as he pulls against their weight.

Phil doesn’t want to hurt him and backs up. He breaks his promise in nearly the same breath as it was made— No. Time is of the essence; this _is_ necessary and he _is_ in Control. He uses the lightest touch possible as he softly Says, _Stop_.”

Angel does so but the unfocused look of subspace is missing. Instead his eyes harden, the anger turning flinty with resolve and Phil knows as soon as the Command fades Angel will lunge for him again. 

Phil feels an awful realization, his stomach turning. 

Angel isn’t a switch at all. He’s a dom. And not a contradynamic dom; he isn’t submissive of his own free will. This is something he’s being forced to do. This has to be related to the Framework and Phil swallows down his nausea when he pictures Clint in chains, his eyes burning like Angel’s.

“It’s okay, everything’s going to be okay, Angel. I’m going to get you out of here,” he just needs to get whatever intel the Winchesters have on the Framework first.

“Nothing’s ‘okay’. Nothing will ever be ‘okay’. When they review logs and see that I didn’t fight you I’m going to die. Horribly. Again. And again. And again.”

Phil closes his eyes for a second as he has the fleeting thought that maybe Jeanie had the right idea; and it would be even easier for him than it had been for her. He could start with Fury, bend all of SHIELD to his Will and from there—

No. 

Clint wouldn’t want that, and the Dr. Roth massacre proved how ineffective Domination is as a tool when it comes to tracking down Quinn.

Phil has definitely been using his Voice too much. He’s starting to scare himself. 

“I swear to you. You’re not in the Framework anymore. And I’m going to get you free.”

“Free?” Angel’s laughter is full of despair, “If this is reality there’s only one way I will truly be free.”

“Help me. Help me and let me help you.”

Angel comes to a decision, “If you are real, then I have to help you. And if you’re not, it doesn’t matter; Sam and Dean will torture me either way.”

“Thank you, Angel. I promise, I will get you out of here.”

“What you want is this way. And call me Cas.”

“Let’s get you out of those chains and into some clothes, Cas.”

“No. That’s not important,” his gruff voice is flat and emotionless, “We need to get you everything on the Framework first. You have to stop Ian Quinn. If he gets his way it will be nothing short of an apocalypse. It’s not like I remember what it’s like to be human, anyway.”

Phil’s heart breaks at his robotic tone, lacking any self pity or pain, his lack of humanity merely a fact and nothing more. 

Clint will be different. 

Clint _has_ to be different. 

Cas is more helpful than Phil would have imagined, knowing all of the Winchester’s passwords, it’s only a few minutes until Phil has a thumb drive full of data on the Framework.

He’s tucking the drive into his pocket when they hear a car coming up the gravel. 

“Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“Wait, Phil. I pray to God you’re right, that this isn’t the Framework. And if it isn’t I just wanted to say thank you.”

“I swear, Cas,” Phil rests his hand on a scarred shoulder, promising him his suffering is at an end, “This is real.”

Cas looks at Phil with what might be the first glimmer hope, “I believe you,” and then before Phil can react, he grabs Phil’s gun, sets the muzzle against his temple, and pulls the trigger.

“ ** _NO_**!” Phil Shouts but it’s too late, he isn’t fast enough. 

Fuck. 

FUCK.

He has to get out of here. There’s nothing he can do for Cas and there’s no reason to reset the alarms now. He manages to get away without crossing paths with the Winchesters but part of him desperately wishes he hadn’t. 

He silently promises to find Cas justice; as soon as he finds Clint. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s about 24 hours left on the Charity Hawktion, so you still have time to get a bid in on a custom fanwork, including art, fic, fanmixes, and more, and your donation will go to a worthy cause.
> 
> [Here](https://charityhawktion.tumblr.com/post/620849378034401280/hawktion-2020-creator-masterlist) is the full list of contributors.


	3. Chapter 3

At first it seems like the Winchester intel is a dead end but Barney and Shelly are able to work together to trace all of their movements for the last several months and they get something that might be a hit. It’s tenuous but Phil will take anything at all.

The Winchesters had a job in Florence just before New Year’s, which just so happens to be thirty minutes out from a villa owned by a shell corporation which in turn is owned by another shell corporation, a shell corporation owned by Quinn Worldwide. 

Phil tells Fury he’s going back to Malta to see if there are any leads he missed, taking the last of his personal time and flying commercial. 

Once he lands he switches to one of his covers and makes his way up to Florence, changing identities twice more and switching from plane to train to car. 

He rents a motorcycle and apartment in Florence under yet another identity and then rides out to the villa, even though it’s late enough that he should really wait for the morning. 

Only Shelly and Barney know where he’s headed and it’s probably another dead end, but it’s not paranoia if you’re actually being watched. 

He’ll scope it out, get the lay of the land and, if Quinn’s there, the size of any security team and any measures he has in place. Even if Quinn is at the Villa there’s no guarantee that Barton will be. 

Phil refuses to even contemplate whether or not Clint’s still alive. He feels a wave of nausea remembering the look in Cas’s eyes right before he shot himself. 

He turns off the engine and headlight just before the driveway to the villa and parks in a small copse of trees across the street from the gatehouse. He checks his clip and reholsters his gun under his leather jacket. It and the layers of his undershirt and black turtleneck are enough to keep out the cold, especially with the added protection of his beard and leather gloves. He checks the pockets of his cargo pants for his lock picks and other sundry items, such as a pair of wire cutters and his smaller night vision binoculars. 

He makes his way up to the gate house, avoiding the cameras. The guard’s face is lit by flickering light and Phil can just make out the sound of what seems to be hardcore pornography. As Phil gets closer he realizes the sounds aren’t all from the video, the guard is masturbating. 

It will make sneaking by easier but Phil feels the faint hope that this will pan out start to slip away. Quinn has been too cagey, too good, for one of his security detail to be this sloppy. 

He hears a sharp groan and thinks maybe it’s the guard but, no, it’s from the video. The sound of pained crying is enough to turn Phil’s stomach and he feels his lip curl. He doesn’t have anything against pornography as a general rule but, based on the state Cas was in, he has a feeling he isn’t hearing paid actors. 

In the next second everything changes. 

He hears the dialog in the video, _“You can beg for one, slut; what do you want more, the bow, or to come? I’ll even let you go Down.”_

Phil sees a surge of red. Clint. That has to be Clint in the video. 

His Will, dancing on a razor’s edge, misses a step and he tries to reign in the beast, to keep from falling off, from losing Control. 

The voice that replies is more familiar to him than his own heart beat, for all that he hasn’t heard it in almost two months, _“The bow, Sir. Please? Please, Sir, please may it have the bow?”_

The sound of his submissive’s pleas wash the red away, replacing it with a calm clarity he’s only felt once before, in the middle of a Costa Rican jungle. 

Phil doesn’t fall off the edge. 

He _dives._

He doesn’t free his inner monster, he _is_ the monster.

He stalks out of the darkness and the guard senses Phil’s presence. He looks up, hand still jerking his dick in his pants.

“What the fuck!”

_“Oh, God, please, Sir; please tell this stupid, worthless slut what it needs to do for the bow?”_

Phil looks him in the eye and with that preternatural calm uses the deepest levels of his Voice, “ ** _STOP_**.”

“Wha…?” The guard doesn’t have nearly Jeanie’s Will and dies almost immediately, blood pouring from his eyes, nose, and mouth as the resonance of Phil’s Command hits him like a sledgehammer. He falls lifelessly onto the monitor, obscuring the image of Phil’s sub’s contorted and abused body and the cruel doms standing over him. 

_“You got blood on my boots, comeslut. Lick it clean and you can have the bow.”_

Phil snarls and grabs the guard’s head, smashing it into the monitor over and over again until both are broken bloody messes. The guard’s body falls to the floor and blood starts to pool around it. 

_His_ submissive. They have his submissive and he’s going to make them pay, Phil will leave a swath of destruction across the world if he has to. 

CLINT BELONGS TO HIM. 

Phil makes his way to the villa, looking for patrolling guards, his bloodlust making him eager for a confrontation, ready to Order every last bastard in the complex to their death. 

Any ideas of mapping out patrols, scouting out whether Quinn or Clint are really here, doing this the right way, the safe way, are shouted down by one throbbing thought: FIND CLINT. 

If he finds Quinn first he’s a dead man, no question, but he’s insignificant next to Phil’s Drive to find and Protect his submissive. 

As Phil gets close to the house he sees a familiar outline in a balcony window, a figure strapping on a quiver and he feels his senses sharpen even more as the last of his rational thoughts dissipating like smoke, leaving only one behind, ‘ _Mine’._

Phil runs and leaps up to grab the bottom of the balcony before pulling himself up and over the railing. The moment before smashing open the door he’s arrested at the beautiful sight of his sub as he looses an arrow. 

At first all he sees is Clint’s form, his stance, the way he draws and releases with the grace and precision of a dancer; one that hears a perfect tune made only for him. He’s nearly naked, wearing a sheer loincloth hanging from a chain riding low around his hips, a thick collar, and black cuffs. Then he notices how thin Clint is, the bruises and bite marks that litter his body, the silver flashing at his ears and nipples.

Someone has marked his submissive. HIS! 

And then Clint shoots again and the beauty of it washes over Phil and it feels like a spell breaking as Clint saves him yet again. He still feels the clean bite of rage and everything is in sharp relief but he’s able to swallow down the need to break down the door and Reclaim his sub, his rational brain coming to the forefront, warning against setting off the alarm.

He has to do this right. If the guards come en masse, if one gets behind Phil and shoots him or, worse, shoots Clint, they’ll both be lost. Phil has to keep the beast reigned in, to chain it back to the foundation of his Will. 

The balcony door is wired and locked but it doesn’t take him long to get through both. He draws his gun, more a reminder to not succumb to his baser instincts than any real weapon, not compared to Phil himself. He opens the door and steps into the warm interior, a small gust of cold air pushing in behind him. 

“No,” Clint whispers and then flinches and aims at Phil. 

Phil fights the desire to use his Voice to Own his sub, knowing once he starts he may never stop; he forces the Drive to Claim Clint here and now into the deepest corner of his mind. 

That’s not what Clint needs. 

“Clint?” He asks softly, as if to a frightened or injured animal, well aware that that’s when they’re at their most dangerous and Clint, his beautiful, wild, untamable submissive is never more deadly than with a bow in his hands. 

“Sir. Please, Sir,” Clint begs, “Something else, please?”

“Something… What?” Phil asks, not following. 

“It would never think a forbidden word, Master.”

“Master?” What does he mean ‘forbidden word’?

“Master is always listening,” he says it like he would say water is wet, as if it’s some immutable constant. 

“Shit,” he means Quinn. Phil cases the room but doesn’t see any obvious cameras or microphones; that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. 

Phil just barely keeps from using his Voice as he says, “We have to go. Now.”

“Please, Master. It loves you. Only you and nothing else.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Phil feels his heart break a thousand times between one beat and the next. He takes a step forward and Clint flinches again as Phil reaches out a beseeching hand and says, “I'm sorry it took me so long, sweetheart. Please, you need to come with me. I’m here to take you home.”

“It is home, Sir,” Clint says with a confused expression. 

“No!” Phil roars, “This isn’t your home.”

“Sir, please,” Clint, his precious sub, once so reluctant to show any form of need or subservience, begs, “This slut knows its place.”

Phil bites back his rage for Clint’s sake, “I don’t want to force you but I will if I have to; I’m helping you escape whether you like it or not.”

Clint’s already been through so much and will likely react badly to Phil’s Voice if Phil isn’t careful. He refuses to let anymore harm come to his sub and keeping his Voice in check is some small slice of dignity he can give back to Clint. 

“There is no escape, Sir,” Clint says and it’s roughness reminds Phil of the desolation in Cas’s ruined voice.

“Yes there is, Clint,” Phil says, willing Clint to believe him, to trust him. 

“Please, please it hurts, Sir.”

“What hurts?

“The forbidden word, Sir. It won’t think it, it promises.”

“The forbid— your name?” And Phil finally puts it together, the way he’s flinched every time Phil’s said ‘Clint’, his refusal, or maybe inability to call Phil by name— fuck, even his pronouns; Quinn has completely stripped Clint of his identity. 

Phil is going to make Ian Quinn suffer before he kills him. 

“Worthless sluts don't have names, Sir.”

“Jesus Christ,” Phil swears, feeling another wave of rage, this time tinged with sorrow. Phil tries to use Clint’s fear of his own name to his advantage, part of him hating himself, “Okay. Okay, I won’t say it, if you come with me right now.”

Clint stares at Phil’s shoes and Phil can see the gears clicking. If Clint refuses Phil will have to Order him, no matter how dangerous that might be, but what Clint does next is almost worse than outright refusal as he asks the room, asks _Quinn,_ “Master? Master, if it pleases you, your slut will try to escape?”

Phil has to take several deep breaths, feeling his already weak Control fray.

After a beat Clint appears to make up his mind, “This way, Sir,” and Phil is once again reminded of Cas. Phil remembers the way he said, ‘ _It doesn’t matter if I help you or not, Sam and Dean will torture me either way.’_

Phil is going to kill every last one of them. 

Some part of Clint is still there. It’s in the way he clears the hallway and rooms on the way out of the building, the way he silently takes out a couple of guards before Phil can Say anything, pinning one to a wall and catching another in the security room. 

They’re nearly to the driveway when Quinn’s Voice comes out over the PA system, not enough to make a dent in Phil’s defenses, but more than enough to reach Clint with him being halfway Down like he is. “ _STOP_. _KILL HIM._ ”

Clint reaches out and grabs Phil by the throat, lifting him from the ground, “Yes, Master.”

Phil hates what he has to do but he meant it when he told Shelly he would do anything to get Clint back, even if it means hurting his submissive to save his submissive. Even if it means losing himself. He pulls at the hand around his neck until he’s able to get out a strong Whisper, “ _Let go_.”

Clint goes Down, and down, like his strings have been cut. He releases Phil and sinks to his knees while Quinn yells over the PA,“What are you doing, you stupid slut! I said, ‘ _KILL HIM’._ ”

Something in Phil purrs as Clint rests his cheek on Phil’s boot and asks, “How may your slut please you, Master?”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Phil says, hating himself, wishing it hadn't come to this. Clint’s has already had so much taken from him, the last thing Phil wants is to take away his free will (the satisfaction of seeing his boy _Submit_ gives lie to that thought), “I had to.”

“You will regret this, you _worthless piece of meat_! You know the price of disobedience.”

Control. 

He has to maintain Control. 

“Come on, Cl—,” Phil stops himself from saying Clint’s name, if barely, “Come on. Stand up for me. We need to run.”

Phil crouches down, picking up Clint’s bow from where he dropped it and grabbing Clint’s arm, helping Clint stand. 

“ _STOP. NOW, or there will be no end to your_ _Punishment_.”

Clint shakes all over but Phil doesn’t have time to comfort him, instead grabbing his hand and pulling him into a run.

Quinn continues to shout over the PA, Ordering Clint to stop, to kill Phil, to go to his knees, all of which Clint ignores. Quinn also tries to call out to his guards and Phil prays they’ve gotten enough distance that they won't get shot while they’re running down the long driveway. 

Phil leads Clint to his hidden motorcycle and then quickly takes off his jacket. It’s nearly freezing, if they had more time he would strip the dead guard or, hell, give Clint the clothes off his back, but Phil’s jacket will have to do.

“Put this on, quickly,” if he speeds and they aren’t followed he can get them back to the apartment in under twenty minutes, which means they should be able to avoid hypothermia. 

“M… Master?” 

Phil cups Clint’s cheek and he leans into Phil’s touch with a sigh. 

“It's cold,” Phil says by way of explanation, keeping himself from pulling Clint into his arms, of kissing him, Claiming him; he can’t allow himself to satisfy his needs at the expense of his submissive’s. 

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“If— ,” the words are agreeable, but Clint’s tone is reluctant. Phil tries to reassure him, “Yes. Yes, it will.”

Phil has to help Clint with the jacket and it seems like the added warmth pulls him further into subspace. Phil gets Clint situated on the bike, his helmet’s rolled off somewhere into the grass or he would give it to Clint and he’s struck by how woefully unprepared he is; and he only has himself to blame. 

Some part of him had given up somewhere along the way. A couple weeks ago and he would have stormed the villa with a small army. 

But no. If he had gone in loud, guns blazing, Quinn would have been long gone. This was only ever going to work by cutting SHIELD out.

There’s shouting and lights as Quinn, or at least his guards, reach the gatehouse. Phil has to get Clint out of here. 

Now.

“ _Hold on to me_ ,” he Orders, not willing to take any chances of Clint falling off. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Phil pulls Clint’s arms around his waist and brings Clint flush against his back, “ _Don’t let go_.” 

Clint presses his nose against the side of Phil’s neck, whimpering, then moaning, “Like this, Master?”

“Yes, just like that,” Phil says, regretting having to use force, knowing he’s already abused the power of his Voice more than enough for a lifetime. Though as much as he regrets having to use it on Clint, he can’t feel anything but satisfaction at using it to kill the guard. 

“Has your worthless slut done something wrong, Master?”

Phil thought he had his Dominance under Control, but it strains near to breaking at further proof of the damage Quinn has done to his submissive. It’s the second time Clint’s called himself a worthless slut, two words that he knows would have normally set Clint off, and Phil feels a rush of Protective rage so strong that he expects it to light up the night sky. 

“No,” Phil says, trying to force himself to not let the anger show, not wanting to frighten Clint any more than he already has, “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart.”

Clint sighs and presses more firmly against Phil’s back, and he thinks he feels Clint’s lips against his neck. Clint whispers, “Thank you for keeping your slut, Master.”

Phil swallows back his tears, not sure whether they are more from rage, fear, loss, pain, or relief, just knowing they aren’t what Clint needs right now and more than anything he is going to be what Clint needs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up will be the first chapter of Let the Waves Up and Take Me Down: After, which will alternate with this to show each of their POVs of their first night back together.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil breathes a sigh of relief when they reach the apartment and there’s been no sign that they’ve been followed. The freezing air and the feeling of Clint pressed up against him, close enough for Phil to Protect him, has cleared his mind.

He takes a moment to let the silence settle over them. He doesn’t want to move, he wants to stay there with Clint’s pressing up against him.

Clint shivers and tightens his arms, breaking Phil’s reverie. He needs to get them inside; it’s too cold to stay out here. 

“You can let go now, sweetheart.”

“If it pleases you, Master,” and there’s that reluctance again, as though he wants to argue. Clint squeezes Phil tightly and Phil feels a spark of relief and the small show of defiance but it’s over far too soon as Clint releases his hold. 

Phil turns to Clint once he’s dismounted and holds out his hand, “Come on, off you go.”

“Yes, Master,” he says, taking Phil’s hand but he falls forward on the bike when he tries to swing his leg over.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa; I’ve got you,” Phil says, holding him steady, “You’re okay.”

“Your worthless slut is sorry, Master.”

Phil’s hands tighten involuntarily as the rage beats against its cage. Clint cries out and Phil gentles his touch as he says, “Shit! Sorry.”

“Sorry, Master?” Clint asks, pushing himself back up with his arms. 

“I shouldn’t have hurt you; I’m sorry.”

“But Master, your slut deserves it.”

Phil contemplates securing Clint in the apartment and then riding back to the villa to burn it down. 

With everyone inside. 

The only thing stopping him is that there is no force on Earth that will ever separate him from his sub again. 

Not even vengeance. 

“We are going to have several long conversations when we get upstairs.”

“Yes, Master.”

Clint seems to have gotten his balance back, “Do you think you can get down now?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Which, Phil is learning, means ‘no’.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your worthless slut is sorry, Master,” Phil feels his lip curl involuntarily at the derogatory words; Clint flinches and Phil tries to get a tighter handle on his emotions, “It… it wants to obey, Master, but its legs…”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I should have realized,” damn it. He’s been so tied up in what he’s feeling that he hasn’t even thought of how cold Clint must be, “Let me help you. I’m sorry, this will probably hurt a bit.”

Phil rubs Clint’s legs and Clint closes his eyes in either pleasure or pain; it’s hard to tell because he doesn’t make a sound and it’s so unlike Clint that Phil’s heart aches, “Is this okay?”

“It’s wonderful, Master,” Clint says, and it’s definitely pleasure. 

After a bit, Clint sounds reluctant as he says, “Thank you, Master. Your slut should be able to get down now.”

Phil feels his lip twitch again in anger at the way Clint calls himself a slut but he continues to let it pass for now. They can talk about it once they’re upstairs where it’s warm. 

“Here, use my hand. Be careful and go slow. I’m right here if you need something to grab on to.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, taking Phil’s hand.

Phil closes his eyes in pain; once upon a time he dreamt of Clint calling him Master but hearing it now is a nightmare. Phil isn’t paying attention like he should and is unprepared for the way Clint falls to the ground with a small cry. Clint flinches and whimpers, cringing back as though Phil is going to attack him for falling and Phil freezes.

“Thank you, Master,” Clint says, though for what Phil can only guess. For not beating him? The rage rolls through him as Clint moves to his hands and knees and kisses the top of Phil’s boot. 

“Don’t—,” Phil throttles back on the urge to yell, or even worse, Yell, “Stop that.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, sitting up to kneel in with his heels together and his knees a part, the thin loincloth falling between his knees and Phil’s jacket spreading around him. He sets the back of his wrists on his thighs and the collar forces his head straight but he keeps his eyes down and Phil realizes Clint hasn’t once looked him in the eye. 

Waves of misery come off Clint and Phil isn’t sure if it’s because of the cold hard ground beneath his knees or because Phil let his anger show but Phil is betting on the latter. 

Clint confirms his suspicions, “Your slut is sorry for displeasing you, Master. Please, tell it how it may serve you?”

Phil has to be better about keeping his anger in check. He takes a deep breath and asks, “Can you stand?”

Clint says “Yes, Master; it will be a good slut, it will obey,” and all of Phil’s good intentions fly out the window as the rage swamps him again. 

He tries to let Clint stand on his own, his need to help warring with the part that knows how much Clint hates— or at least hated— being ‘coddled’. Clint whimpers and Phil crouches down, unable to hold back. 

Clint flinches again and Phil clenches his teeth against the urge to scream or cry and offers, “Here, arms around my neck.”

Clint hesitantly obeys and Phil lifts Clint in a bridal carry; it’s easier that it should be, Clint’s only been gone two months and he’s lost so much weight. 

He holds Clint close and breathes him in. He pushes past the way his inner demon’s claws unsheathe at the smell of blood and come. 

Clint whispers, “Master?”

He focuses on the warm scent that is undeniably Clint and says, “Shhh, let me carry you.”

“Yes, Master,” he says and tightens his grip around Phil’s neck, “Thank you, Master.” 

Once they’re upstairs Phil takes Clint to the bedroom and sets him down on the bed gently, “Wait here.”

He goes into the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of water and some painkillers. He stops to call Shelly, using one of the burners.

“I got him, Misch, I got him,” at least Phil hopes he has. Clint isn’t like Cas was. Cas at least had retained some sense of himself. Though in the end that hadn’t been a blessing but rather a curse. 

“Oh, Phil,” Shelly says, “Thank God. What do you need.”

“Book us a flight to DC? Use Richard Campbell and Jerry Pierce.”

“You sure you don’t want to come to New York? You know the spare room is yours for the taking.”

“I want to take him somewhere familiar.”

“Give me a sec,” he can hear her typing. She must still be at work, “I’ve got a flight out of Florence at 14:35 local? All that’s left is economy; we have a lot more options if you wait a day.”

“Book it. I just want to get Clint home.”

“Consider it done,” she says and then asks softly, “How is he?”

“It’s… I’m not going to lie, Shell, it’s not good. He’s going to need a lot of help,” more help than Phil is going to be able to give on his own but that can wait until they’re back Stateside, “Can you call Barney, let him know we got him?”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

“I’ll call you when we get in and let you know we landed safe.”

“You’d better. I love you, Cheese. Don’t worry, we’re going to get through this.”

“I love you, too, Shells. Kiss the boys for me.”

He disconnects and then dials the number he should have called first. 

“Fury.”

“I need you to send a team to Florence. Villa Collazzi. Quinn was there as of thirty minutes ago.”

“I’ve got Garrett and Ward in Monte Carlo. They can be there in four hours. Where can they meet you?”

“No.”

“‘No’? What do you mean, ‘ _no_ ’? You don't get to say no to me.”

“I’m sorry, sir. This is too important.”

“You got him, didn’t you?” Fury says, the surprise and something like pride in his voice turn to disappointed anger, “Shit; you let Quinn get away.”

That burns, though he’s just as upset as Fury, if not more so; Phil’s tone is sharp when he says, “We’ll be making our own way back to the States. We’ll come in once I know he’s safe.”

“Is this about your ‘mole’? You know I respect a healthy dose of paranoia in my people but don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far?”

“We’re— he’s going to need a lot of help.”

“God damn it, Phil, _talk to me_!”

Phil brushes off the Order, “If everything goes according to plan we’ll see you in your office day after tomorrow at 08:00; have Psych and Medical prepped.”

“You are, by far, the biggest pain in my ass.”

“Please?”

“Who do you think you're talking to?”

“Thank you, boss.”

“I’m expecting one hell of an AAR.”

When he gets back to the bedroom he winces. Clint’s on the floor, kneeling like he had downstairs. 

“Do you think you could sit on the bed for me?”

“Yes, Master,” he does so cautiously, as though it’s some sort of trap. 

“Take this,” Phil hands Clint one of the bottles of water, “Drink all of it but don’t rush.”

“But Master, it hasn’t earned it.”

Phil’s so angry that for a moment he shakes with it and it takes several calming breaths before he can speak, “Drink it. And when you’re done, here are a couple more,” he sets the additional bottles on the nightstand, “Like I said, don’t rush; pace yourself. Do you understand?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil winces at Clint’s response, he can’t have been shown much kindness the last couple of months to be so distrustful of such a small thing. 

“I also want you to take a couple of these for the pain,” he says, holding out the ibuprofen.

Clint sounds terrified, his voice shaking as he says “If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil tries to reassure him, though he knows Clint has no reason to trust him, “The sooner you take them, the sooner they’ll start working.”

Clint nods miserably and slowly opens the water, whimpering at the first sip then holding each mouthful for a few seconds, tilting his head back and humming in pleasure before pausing to take the pills. 

Phil tries not to wonder what brought Clint to the point that something so simple could have such an effect. 

“I know you’re exhausted, sweetheart, but I’d like to clean you up a bit before you go to sleep.”

He also wants to get a better look at the damage that’s been done to his sub, as well as an excuse for Phil to touch him the way he Needs to. 

Clint shudders in fear and Phil hears the silent ‘no’ louder than ever when Clint says, “If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil sighs and pushes, “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Clint frowns and Phil can’t resist reaching out and trying to comfort him, running his hands through Clint’s hair. It’s almost an inch longer and it feels rough under Phil’s fingertips. He decides to give Clint a bath instead of just rubbing him down with a washcloth; it will let him rinse Clint’s hair as well as fully get the touch of the other doms off of his submissive. 

Phil cups the left side of Clint’s face, careful of the bruises that line the right side of his jaw. In fact, the entire right side of his face is a mess, his lip is split, his eye is bruising, and his nose is probably broken. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, and his face has dried smears of blood and come. 

A bath will also warm Clint up a little more before Phil tries to ice down the swelling, the cold ride not having been enough to do that for them. 

Phil closes his eyes in pain and kisses the left side of Clint’s forehead gently, wishing he could take away the last two months; that they had never left that Christmas dinner, that had instead stayed in the comfort of Phil’s family home. 

Clint blushes and chokes out a shocked, “Master!”

“Not okay?” Phil asks, concerned. 

“Your worthless slut does not deserve to be touched by your mouth, Master, but it is here to please you.”

“No!” Phil snarls, unable to tolerate the way Clint speaks about himself for a second more, the warm Christmas memory shattered by harsh reality, “That’s it. That’s the last time I want to hear you call yourself that.”

“Oh, Master, please, please let it be your worthless slut? It will be good. It will. Please Master?” 

“No. That’s enough. If you call yourself a worthless slut one more time…” Phil trails off not knowing what he’d do. 

Cry, probably. 

“The come hole is sorry, Master.”

“What the fuck, Clint!” He shouts, that’s even worse and Phil forgets himself and his promise and uses Clint’s name. 

Clint jerks back, the bottle of water falls to the floor and Clint curls in on himself, covering his head as if shielding himself from a blow. 

Phil knows better than to use Clint’s name, that it causes him pain, and he resolves to do better. To _be_ better. 

Clint’s panicking now, crawling away across the bed, “Oh, no, Master, please no! It will be good! It will be good. It will take its punishment, it deserves it, but please, please Master, please don’t make it meat?”

“Shh, shh, I’m sorry, baby; I’m sorry. You are good. You are. I’m not going to punish you,” he reaches out but holds back, unsure of how Clint will react to Phil’s touch while he’s in this state. 

“Really, Master?” Clint stops moving, “You’re not going to punish your— it? It isn’t meat?”

Phil sighs and sits down on the side of the bed next to Clint, his voice nearly breaking as he begs, “Come here, please? I really need to hold you.” 

Clint inches up next to him and when Phil holds out his arm Clint tucks himself up next to Phil, letting Phil wrap his arm around his waist. He pulls Clint close and tells him, “I’m not going to punish you, but it pains me to hear you call yourself worthless, or slut, or,” Phil thinks they’ll be here all night if he tries to list everything and he trails off weakly, “Things like that.”

“It would never hurt you, Master,” Clint says, leaning into Phil.

“I know you wouldn’t. But you don’t like your name—“

“Master—,” Clint tries to interrupt but Phil overrides him.

“Shush, let me finish.”

“Your sl— Sorry, Master.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, sweetheart, I want you to listen.”

“Yes, Master.”

Phil looks at Clint trying to determine if Clint is really listening to him or just saying what he thinks Phil wants to hear. 

“As I was saying, I don’t like what you’ve been calling yourself. So we’re going to need something we can both agree on. Now, I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this,” Phil says, stroking Clint’s hip worried about how Clint’s going to react but unable to think of another way to go about this, “And I don’t want you to panic, you’re not in trouble, okay?”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says with confusion.

“But if you don’t like ‘Clint’,” he says Clint’s name as soft and carefully as he can but Clint still whimpers and shakes, burying his eyes against Phil’s neck. Phil hugs him tightly and continues, “Shhh, you’re okay. It’s okay. Does Hawkeye—”

Clint cries out, louder than before, and his arms tighten around Phil. Phil can feel Clint’s heart racing like a bird’s and he rubs his fingers over Clint’s hip, murmuring comforting noises, “Shhh, shh. I’m sorry, I had to be sure. I don't suppose you want to tell me any other words that hurt?”

“Only the forbidden ones, Master. It promises, it won’t think them. It’s a good sl— it will be good.”

Phil holds back his frustration and says, “You are good.”

“But Master—”

“No ‘buts’,” Phil says with as much finality as possible; he can accommodate Clint’s need to talk in third person and his avoidance of the word ‘no’, those are both things they can work on later; but he absolutely won’t budge on Clint thinking Phil thinks he’s not good.

Clint sounds anything but agreeable when he says, “If it pleases you, Master,” and Phil knows that he has his work cut out for him. 

“We’ll come back to your forbidden words another time,” he says, “Rather than try to walk that minefield, why don’t you tell me what you want me to call you?”

If he can’t figure out what not to say, he can at least try to get Clint to let him know what Clint wants to hear. 

“Yours, Master.”

Phil lets out a soft, sad laugh, “For as long as you want. But you need some sort of a name.”

“But Master, sluts don’t have names.”

Phil is suddenly exhausted, “I honestly don’t have the strength to get into that with you tonight. I tell you what, why don’t you think about it while I draw the bath.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil sighs. Clint may object to coming up with a name but Phil sure as hell isn't going to let him keep calling himself ‘slut’, not when he knows how much baggage the word came with for Clint before this nightmare began. It would be one thing if he were like Grant, he loved ‘slut’ as a term of endearment; Clint on the other hand has always hated the word. 

And he doesn’t want to just give Clint a different epithet; Clint needs to pick something for himself, to start rebuilding his identity and hopefully reclaim his sense of self. 

Phil picks up the water bottle from the floor, miraculously unspilled, “I suppose that will have to be good enough.”


	5. Chapter 5

Phil’s arrested for a moment by his reflection in the mirror as he enters the bathroom. 

He scratches at his dark scruff of a beard, wondering if he should finally shave it off; but that can wait for the morning. He looks tired, with the familiar dark circles under his hazel blue eyes that he’s had for the last several weeks, but there’s also an energy, a glow, that had been missing along with Clint and is back now that he has his sub again, no matter how difficult it is to see Clint in this condition. 

He pulls out the family buckle from his pocket, running his fingers over the familiar words. _PARI PASSU._ Equal in all respects. 

He may not have Clint back yet, not fully, but he vows that one day they’ll be on equal footing again and he’ll be free to offer his collar to Clint without reservation. 

He sets out a couple of washcloths and uses a folded over towel as a bath mat. Clint’s still far too cold and Phil doesn’t want to set the bathwater too warm. He pushes up the sleeves of his black turtleneck and tests it; perfect. 

Once the tub, a surprising luxury in the cheap Italian apartment, is full enough he stops the tap and goes to get Clint. 

“Well, have you had a chance to think of what you’d like me to call you?” He asks, drying his hands and then pausing. 

Clint’s kneeling on the bed, sitting on his heels with his knees spread and his back straight. He should look ridiculous with his flimsy loincloth and Phil’s too small leather jacket but all Phil sees is his beautiful sub. Phil needs to get rid of that damned collar. It’s to the soft side for a posture collar; Clint’s able to turn his head, albeit with difficulty, but that doesn’t make it any less horrible. He also needs to do something about the way Clint constantly keeps his eyes downcast. 

Clint’s vision has always been one of his greatest strengths and Phil closes his eyes at the now familiar surge of hatred for Ian Quinn. 

The black bands showing at his wrists aren’t cuffs at all but tattoos, even more permanent markings than the small but thick silver rings hanging from his ears and nipples. 

Instead of placing his wrists on his knees like before, Clint has the end of a leash, one that Phil hadn’t even noticed before, laying across his flat palms and he’s holding it out to Phil. 

Phil throws the towel over his shoulder and comes over to take the leash. He runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, just above his left ear, needing and being afraid to touch his sub in equal measure, and is comforted by the way Clint leans into his hand. 

Clint leaves his palms up and hesitantly asks “If… if it pleases you Master, you could… you could call it,” he pauses, as if afraid of the words, ducking his head as much as he can with the collar and Phil realizes he’s afraid of Phil, or at least Phil’s reaction and he braces himself for something awful, “Your pet?”

Phil’s hand in Clint’s hair tightens involuntarily, it’s both not as bad and worse than he had expected. 

Grant once accused Phil of wanting him to be nothing more than a kept pet, it was a featured theme in most of their arguments and in the end it was the core of the downfall of their relationship. The term holds no small amount of resentment for Phil, but it’s Clint’s choice. Against his will he asks, “Pet? Are you sure there isn’t something better?”

Clint bites his lip and says, “Of course, Master. Could it… would you allow it to be your fuck toy, Master?”

And of course Clint’s alternative is worse; he doesn’t realize his hand has tightened into a fist until Clint whimpers. Phil forces himself to relax his hand and tries to sooth away the pain with gentle strokes of Clint’s hair.

“Pet it is,” he resigns himself. 

“Oh, thank you, Master!” Clint bends forward and presses his face to the bed and laying his arms out, palms up, the movement causing the leash to tug on the collar. 

“You don’t have to—,” Phil cuts himself off, and runs his hand through Clint’s hair again, learning when to pick his battles. 

Clint hums with pleasure, though only for a moment before cutting himself off and going abruptly silent. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Phil asks quietly, “When I pet your hair?”

“Oh, yes, Master. Very much. Would you like your pet to beg for your touch, Master?”

“No!” Phil bites out, his temper flaring. He feels an ache of sorrow; once, all he wanted in the world was to hear Clint beg for his touch and now that’s been ruined, possibly beyond all repair. 

Clint shies away from him, bracing for a blow that will never come and says, “It is sorry, Master, it did not mean to be greedy.”

“Oh, baby,” Phil says, petting him again, “It isn’t anything you did. I need you to know that I may get angry, probably very angry sometimes, but that it isn’t at you; okay?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“No, no I’m not going to budge on this one. No ‘if it pleases’. Just because I get angry at something you say, doesn’t mean I’m angry with you,” he keeps his tone firm but gentle, “Repeat it.”

“Yes Master. If you get angry at something your pet says, it doesn’t mean you're angry with your pet.”

Phil sighs, “It’s a start. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Clint gasps and sits up, suddenly terrified again for no reason Phil can see; he had seemed calm enough when Phil had left to start the bath. The fear seems to only last a second before Clint is sliding off the bed and on to his hands and knees. 

Phil can’t resist brushing his fingers through Clint’s hair again; having gotten confirmation that it’s a good touch, he wants to do it all the time, “Stand up, please. I’d prefer it if you walked.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says and then stands so gracefully that it’s obvious that he’s trying to show off and Phil’s breath catches in his throat and he feels tears prick his eyes; for just a second he’s the old Clint, _Phil’s_ Clint _._

Then the second is gone, and there's no smirk, or snarky remark, or heated glance and Phil can’t breath. 

He takes a moment to compose himself and then says, “This way, Pet,” trying the name out, seeing how it feels. It’s not as uncomfortable as Phil wants it to be. 

Clint follows three steps back and to the left, another habit Phil adds to the list of things to undo. He brings Clint up next to the tub and sees Clint eyeing the water suspiciously. 

“Let’s take this off, okay?” Phil asks, taking his jacket by the lapels and pulling it off Clint’s shoulders and down his arms. 

Clint makes a small sound of loss as Phil takes it and hangs it on the back of the bathroom door and he sees Clint staring at it with longing. Phil will try to get Clint one like it when they get home but in the meantime, as ill fitting as it is, it can be Clint’s, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you can have it back later.”

“If it pleases you Master.”

That surprises Phil; ‘if it pleases you’ is second only to ‘but Master’ in ways that Clint disagrees with Phil and he can’t figure out why Clint would say he doesn’t want it when he so clearly does. 

“Did you not like it?”

“Your pet hopes to earn it someday, Master.”

Phil hums to himself, he will just have to show Clint he’s worthy of not only the jacket, but so much more. 

He crouches down next to Clint and looks for the clasp on the waist chain that hangs loosely from his hips. Phil tries not to frown when Clint averts his eyes. 

The loincloth is just draped over the chain and that’s easy enough to remove but running the chain through his fingers there doesn’t appear to be any breaks in it, “I don’t see a clasp, how does this come off?

“It… it doesn’t, Master. Please… please let it keep its chain, Master?” 

He looks up to see Clint blinking away tears and he says, “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s yours. Here, you’ll feel a lot better once we get you cleaned up.”

“Yes, Master.”

There are shallow furrows down Clint’s chest from someone’s fingernails and a boot print snapped bruise to one side. He’s covered in bite marks, they’re across his shoulders and arms, three are in a row on his left pec just above his nipple. There’s another bite opposite the boot print and one on his hip, as well as a particularly deep one on the inside of Clint’s thigh.

His back and ass are covered in bruises and cane marks and Phil has to close his eyes as he once again pictures the villa burning to the ground, Quinn and every other bastard who even thought of touching Clint buried in the ashes. 

“Master?” Clint asks.

“What is it, Pet?” This time the ‘Pet’ rolls off his tongue as if made for his mouth.

“Your pet is sorry, Master, it doesn’t see a hose?”

“A ho— Who do you think the bath is for?”

“For you, Master?”

“No, I thought you understood, sweetheart, this is for you.”

“But Master, sluts d—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Phil growls. 

“Yes, Master.”

“This is your bath.”

Clint sinks to his knees and presses his forehead to the ground, arms outstretched, palms up, “Thank you for your gift, Master.”

“It’s n— Fine. We’ll add that to the list,” bath’s aren’t gifts any more than drinking water or painkillers. Phil’s having trouble keeping track of all the things Clint needs to unlearn.

“Let me get this,” Phil starts to unbuckle the collar when Clint rises up and tries to go straight into the tub, “What are you doing?”

“Accepting your gift, Master?”

“By what? Diving in head first?”

“It… Master? Do you not wish to drown your pet?”

Phil’s monster roars to life breaking its chains as he’s consumed by rage, he’s not sure what he would have done if he hadn’t heard the sound of Clint choking from the grip Phil has on his collar and Phil let’s go as though it shocks him. 

He can’t— he has to step away. He can’t remain calm in the face of— he just—

He pulls on all of his considerable reserves to Order Clint, as lightly as he can manage, though likely not lightly enough, “ _Don’t move_ ,” part of him afraid that Clint will attempt to drown himself if Phil isn’t there to stop him. Phil has to walk away, not wanting to expose Clint to more of his anger than he already has, knowing by now that Clint will take it personally. 

He steps into the hallway and before he can stop himself picks up a vase from the side table and throws it into the living room wall where it shatters into a dozen pieces. 

He’s breathing heavily and looks for something else to throw and catches sight of himself in the hallway mirror. His eyes are crazed and his mouth twisted knot a snarl, he just barely stops his fist from hitting his image. 

This isn’t what Clint needs. 

This isn’t who Clint needs him to be. 

Part of him wants to go downstairs and ride back to the villa so that he can kill them all one by one, as slowly and creatively as he can manage, but he knows he can’t leave Clint, not like this. 

He takes a breath. And then another. 

Several breaths later he knows he’s not going to do anything stupid, like leave Clint behind while he rides off to enact his vengeance or, even worse, get violent in front of him. It was bad enough letting his anger get the better of him to the point that he had to leave Clint alone. 

He goes back to the bathroom and apologizes to Clint, “I’m sorry, Pet. I needed a second.”

“Is… is everything okay Master?”

“No, Pet. Nothing’s okay. Nothing is remotely okay,” he understands Cas better than ever now. 

“Your pet is sorry it displeases you, Master.”

“I’m not— Do you remember what I said about me getting angry?”

“Yes, Master, ‘If you get angry at something your pet says, it doesn’t mean you're angry with your pet’.”

“That’s exactly right. Very good.”

“Oh, thank you, Master. Does that mean you don’t want to give your pet your gift, Master?”

Phil flinches, “No. No ‘gifts’ like that, ever again.”

“But Master—” 

“No,” he says, “No ‘but Master’. Let's get you into the tub while it’s still warm.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil has to bite back his frustration and goes to remove the collar. Instead of a simple buckle there’s a complicated locking mechanism. He whispers, “Of fucking course. Wait here, I need to get the scissors.”

“Master?” Clint asks timidly.

“It’s locked; I’m going to have to cut it off.”

“Oh, Master, Please? Please let it stay collared?”

Phil sighs and wants to argue. He compromises, “No. But I won’t cut it off.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“I’m still removing it while you bathe. It’s not good for your neck,” Phil opens one of his pockets and pulls out the lock picks Clint gave him for their one month anniversary. 

It’s a tricky lock, but not impossible to pick, and he knows if Clint had been in his right mind he could have, _would_ have taken it off himself, awkward angle and appropriate tools or not. 

Clint gasps and it almost looks like he’s going Down. 

“Okay?” Master asks, stroking Clint's bare throat, trying to erase the touch of the collar. 

“Oh, yes, Master,” Clint practically purrs and Phil has to keep himself from taking Clint’s mouth in a possessive kiss. 

Instead he holds out his hand, “Let me help you; up and in. This may sting a bit.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, taking Phil’s hand and standing; Phil carefully helps him sit in the tub and smiles as some of the tension leaves Clint’s body and he lies back. 

Clint begs, “Oh, please Master, may it go Down? It promises not to go too far? Please, Master?”

It’s concerning that Clint doesn’t realize he’s already a little Down and Phil wonders if Clint is asking for Phil to Talk him down further or just asking for permission. 

“Your pet is sorry for being such a greedy little s— for being greedy, Master.”

“No. No, don’t be sorry, sweetheart,” Phil says and caresses the uninjured side of Clint’s face; if Clint wants Phil to use his Voice, he’s going to have to be specific, “Go Down as far as you want; I’ll be here to take care of you.”

“Thank you, Master,” Clint nuzzles Phil’s hand, “Thank you, thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Phil can see the change in Clint as he lets go and Sinks, his body finally relaxing fully as Clint finishes lying back. He rests his head on the edge of the tub and closes his eyes as they dilate further, “Oh, Master, thank you.”

Phil pets Clint’s hair and murmurs, “There you go. That’s better. I’m going to start washing you; I want you to try and stay as relaxed as possible, okay?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,” Clint says with a hint of a slur.

Phil soaks a washcloth and wishes he had something softer to press against Clint’s tender skin. He’s forgoing soap, knowing how much it would sting, and the bath is as much for warmth as anything else. Water will be more than enough for now and Phil will treat any of the open wounds with neosporin once Clint’s out of the tub. 

He starts with Clint’s face, lightly dabbing away at the cuts and bruises; he’ll want to ice them once they’re out of the bath but for now it’s enough to wipe away the dried come, blood, and tears. 

Clint hums pleasantly, lightly buzzed on subspace, “Thank you, Master. Feels good, Master.”

“That’s good, Pet. I want you to feel good. Because you are good. Good, and brave, and so very strong,” Phil tries to pour out all his hope and longing that Clint will see what he sees someday. 

Clint gasps and his hips shift in arousal and Phil feels a flare of pride that feeds his Hunger, barely kept at bay.

“Master,” Clint begs, but that’s all just ‘Master’ and nothing more. 

“Shhh, I’ve got you, baby,” Phil says, moving on to his shoulders, then arms, then chest; trying not to press on the bites and bruises too hard, fighting back at the jealousy that wants to take control and overwrite the marks with his own. 

Clint sucks in a breath when Phil washes over his nipples; sensitive before, now with their pretty silver rings he reacts beautifully to the barest touch, his hips lifting again, “Oh, Master! Please? More please?”

“Like this, baby?” Phil says, rubbing one of Clint’s nipples with his fingers and the other with the washcloth. He licks his lips as his sub’s body writhes in pleasure and he grows hungry for more. He wants to taste and touch; to take Clint’s pleasure as his and his alone. 

“Yes, Master, thank you, Master.”

It’s good, so good to know he’s making Clint feel good and Phil keeps playing with his nipples, gently tugging one nipple ring and rubbing the other nipple with the washcloth before switching and, God, how had he forgotten how sensitive they are, how much Clint loves to have them played with? In no time at all Clint’s begging, “Please, Master, please may your slut come?”

 _Slut_.

Phil stops abruptly, crashing down to reality with a word that Clint, his Clint, would never use. 

Clint sits up on his knees in a panic, the sweet warmth of subspace falling away from him like a wild animal taking flight, “Please, Master, your pet is sorry, it didn’t mean to call itself slut, it’s sorry; please, Master, please punish your disobedient pet.”

“Oh, come here, Pet,” Phil pulls Clint into his arms, headless of the water sloshing over him and says, “It will come with time. I’m sure a lot of things are going to take some getting used to.”

“Thank you, Master,” Clint says, then asks, “Please, may it have its punishment now instead of later?”

“No!” As if Phil would punish him at all, much less for having trouble breaking weeks of conditioning, “No, sweetheart. No punishment. I don’t expect you to be perfect. It’s enough that you’re trying. You can promise me that, right? That you’ll try?”

“Yes, of course, Master! It will always try.”

“Good boy,” Phil says, so proud of his submissive. 

“Oh, oh Master, thank you!”

Phil hugs him tight and then helps him back down into the tub, “Let’s finish getting you clean. I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready for bed.”

“Yes, Master.”

Phil doesn’t let himself fall back into the trap of thinking this is anything like before, in part because of his worry that it will never be like that again. He keeps his touch gentle, especially over Clint’s erogenous zones and broken skin. 

Clint sucks in a sharp gasp and jumps a little when Phil gets to the bite mark on his inner thigh, the wound is deeper than Phil had feared and he worries that it might need stitches, “Sorry, Master.”

“Shh, I’m the one who’s sorry, Pet. I’ll try to be more careful.”

Phil rinses Clint’s hair before having him flip over and rest his arms on a rolled up towel Phil sets at the end of the tub. 

His back and ass aren’t as bad as they had seemed at first glance, the skin only broken in a few places where the welts overlap. 

Phil is as careful as he can be, the monster is lurking underneath his calm and it wants bite and bruise, to erase the touch of others and Claim Clint so that he knows who he really belongs to. 

He wrestles the beast under control and pulls the plug before helping Clint to stand. Phil wraps him in a towel and takes his time patting Clint dry before leading him back into the bedroom, appeasing the monster by taking care of his sub in the way only Phil ever has. 

“Now that we’ve warmed you up I want to ice your bruises and bandage up some of the deeper cuts. The aftercare kit should have some ointment in it, too. Sit here and drink some more water.”

“Yes, Master.”

He gets Clint settled on the bed and then goes to get the aftercare kit. He takes a moment to dispose of the shards from the decorative vase, unconcerned over his security deposit but ashamed of losing control like that. 

He adds a stack of ice packs and a couple hand towels to the large canvas bag, checking to make sure it has everything else he needs; the landlord had said that the place came fully furnished and Phil’s pleased to see they hadn’t skimped on anything. 

When he gets back to the room Clint’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes are closed and he’s moaning softly as he touches his throat with one hand, a forgotten water bottle held loosely in the other. 

He’s so damned beautiful it hurts and Phil could stare at him forever. 

Clint startles and almost drops the water before catching it with reflexes still sharp even after his ordeal. 

He slides off the bed to his spread knees, holding his hands palm up as he did with the leash; without the collar in the way he bows his head as well, “Your pet is sorry for touching itself without your permission, Master. Please punish your disobedient pet?” 

He feels that flash of anger that strikes him each time Clint asks to be punished. He comes into the room and drops the kit on the floor next to Clint, “No. Back on the bed, Pet, head on the pillows; make yourself comfortable.” 

“Yes, Master,” Clint smooths out the towel before lying back, his arms loose at his sides. 

“Here, hold this in place,” Phil sets a large ice pack wrapped in a hand towel on the right side of Clint’s face. It covers him from forehead to chin, including his nose and Phil checks to make sure Clint’s still able to breath, “Be careful, don’t put too much pressure on it, I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Thank you, Master,” Clint sighs.

“You’re welcome. This is going to be cold, too,” Phil warns before laying a couple more ice packs across the bite marks on Clint’s shoulder, chest, hip, and free arm.

“Let me know if this hurts too much,” Phil says, as he gathers some ointment for the bite on Clint’s thigh. He’s going to have to prod it a bit to make sure it doesn’t need stitches.

“Yes, Master.”

Phil is relieved that while the puncture mark is deep, there doesn’t appear to be any tearing.

“Oh, Master,” Clint moans, “Please Master, your pet is sorry, it’s slipping Down.”

“Then go, baby. Let go and let me take care of you,” Clint never used to go Down easily; now he seems to always be on the edge of subspace. At least going Down will make cleaning and bandaging that much easier on Clint. 

“Yes, Master,” Clint says as he slips Under. 

Phil finishes bandaging Clint’s thigh and then places another ice pack there as well. 

Phil feels a rush of lust as he takes care of his sub and sees his reaction; Clint’s dick is full and the tip glistens with precome and Phil wants more than anything to take Clint into his mouth and bring him to completion. 

He distracts himself by feeding the part of him that wants to comfort and care for Clint, rubbing the ointment over his other bites and bruises. 

He lets Clint know, “I think the one on your thigh is the only one that needs to be bandaged, the rest of these are shallow enough that I don’t think they need it. Let’s look at your face.”

Phil takes the ice pack from Clint’s face and brings his arm down to his side before resting the ice pack down on top of the bite marks on that arm. 

Clint’s face is looking much better, and it doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble breathing through his nose, “The swelling looks like it's all the way down. I don’t think your nose needs to be set but it does need to be bandaged. Your lip should be fine on its own, as long as you’re careful and a couple butterflies will keep your forehead from scarring.”

“Thank you, Master,” Clint says, his voice dreamy and distant and Phil’s happy he’s found some comfort in subspace. 

Phil brushes Clint’s hair, now nearly dry, back off his forehead before letting deed follow word and applying the bandages to Clint’s face. 

His eyes are closed and for a moment Phil can pretend that Barton is back from a normal mission; one where he’s done yet another stupidly brave thing to save the day and gotten himself injured in the process. 

Phil closes his eyes and they’re back in their apartment in DC; Barton’s letting Phil take care of him as an indulgence, not for his sake, but for Phil’s. Any second he’s going to blink his eyes open and smirk up at Phil and demand, _‘Can we fuck already or do you need to baby me some more?’_ And Phil will...

And Phil...

And Phil has to wipe away a tear before Clint sees.


	7. Chapter 7

“Okay, roll over,” Phil says once he’s gathered all of the ice packs; they’ve melted enough that he wants to get fresh ones, “I’ll be right back.”

“M… Master?”

“What is it Pet?”

“May it have a come rag to keep its slut juice from getting on your towel, Master?”

Phil doesn’t growl, though it’s a near thing. There are about eighteen things wrong with that sentence, but focusing on that won’t help Clint. 

“The towel will be fine,” he says, trying to not let his frustration show, “Now, roll over and be careful not to hurt yourself.”

“Yes, Master.”

Clint rolls over carefully, resting the uninjured side of his face in the pillow before placing his arms over his head with his wrists crossed. Phil’s breath catches at his easy submission; it’s like he’s caught in the Twilight Zone— somewhere there's a Monkey’s Paw that is down a wish. Phil’s darkest desires are coming true and it’s all horrible. 

When Phil gets to the fridge he rests his head against the freezer door, needing a second to get back on solid ground. He’s been running at full speed ever since the plane landed in Malta. Longer even. Since the moment Clint was taken. 

Once he gets a hold of himself he changes out the ice packs and returns to the room, feeling guilty for spending even that much time away when all he’s ever wanted was to get his sub back. 

“This will be cold again,” he says, laying the ice packs across the lattice work of welts on Clint’s ass. For a moment he’s resentfully grateful for the skill involved in their placement, each mark is precise and even. Phil knows how much worse the damage could have been and he shudders to think of what a whip or cat could have done wielded by the same hand. 

Clint shivers as Phil places the ice packs on his skin and Phil’s worries it might be a little too much but Clint purrs, “Thank you, Master.”

Phil swallows slowly, his dick responding against his will. He distracts himself by thinking about the work left to be done. 

“These don’t look too bad. Your skin’s only broken in a couple places. I’m going to start at the top and work my way down. And remember, baby, tell me if it’s too much.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint’s voice goes syrupy again in the way that tells Phil he’s started to slip back Down; that is if he ever truly came back Up. 

Thinking it over, it’s as if Clint’s been a little Down since the moment Phil found him. 

Phil slowly rubs the anti-bruising cream into Clint’s skin, switching to the antibiotic for the places where Clint’s skin is broken. His submissive starts moaning softly, pushing up into Phil’s hands as Phil massages the aches and pains away and rocking his hips down into the bed languidly. 

Something inside Phil stretches like a jungle cat and then curls up satisfied at Clint’s response and Phil chuckles, not unkindly, “So, not too bad then?”

“Oh, Master, it feels amazing. Your w— pet doesn’t deserve such pleasure.”

Phil catches the near slip and feels that swell of pride again at how hard Clint is trying. He resolves to call Clint ‘Pet’ more often. It’s not what Phil would have chosen (except in all the ways it is, the beast whispers) but it’s what Clint picked for himself and Phil isn’t sure if it’s not something Clint wouldn’t have liked before. It may be wishful thinking on Phil’s part but maybe some of Clint’s true self is pushing through his conditioning. 

And if it helps remind Clint not to degrade himself it’s at least doing some good. 

Clint’s perceptions on his value have always been horribly skewed and Quinn appears to have capitalized on that. Phil says, “I think maybe you should let me worry about what you do or don’t deserve for now.”

Clint tenses up, undoing all of Phil’s work to get him to relax, “Your pet is sorry Master. It never mean to imply—”

“Shh, shh,” Phil stops him, “You’re okay, Pet. I’m not angry with you.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Phil continues to rub Clint’s back, trying to return Clint to that happily fluid state he had been in before Clint’s slip up in the tub. Phil finds a particularly stubborn knot which he eventually works out and Clint moans, “Oh, thank you, Master,” while rolling his hips against the mattress, then repeating the roll and moaning. 

Phil moves the ice packs from Clint’s ass to his back and Clint lets out another moan, this time long and low. 

“Feels good?” Phil asks, checking in. 

“Oh yes, Master.”

“Good,” he says and starts caring for Clint’s ass.

Clint pushes that perfect ass back into Phil’s hands, “Oh, Master.”

Phil holds in a moan of his own, fighting against the need to lick the marks with his tongue, to replace the pain with his touch, “It feels good to me too.”

“Oh! Oh Master, please,” Clint cries out and the beast shakes itself awake. 

Clint is his after all; his to care for, his to touch. 

His to Take.

Phil palms Clint’s ass and squeezes gently, “You’re so good, baby, I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel, I want—”

Phil freezes, he has just just started to push Clint’s cheeks up and apart when he sees the metal end of a butt plug; a heavy one from the look of it. 

He nearly uses Clint’s name, remembering himself at the last second, “Pet?”

“Yes, Master,” Clint replies in a small voice. 

“What is this?” He asks, placing a finger between Clint’s cheeks to tap the base of the plug where the flare curls up between his legs. 

Clint gasps as though he’s been shocked, “It’s your plug, Master?”

Clint sounds miserable when he follows up with, “Your pet is sorry, Master. It should have told you that it’s former Master sealed his come inside your pet’s fuck hole.”

Phil flinches, not just at the way Clint refers to himself but at the imagery it brings. His hand on Clint’s ass squeezes so hard that Clint cries out in pain and Phil yanks his hand away, as if the speed with which he removed it could make up for the hurt he’s caused. 

He lets go and rubs at the tender flesh as he apologizes, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But Master, that’s the only thing your pet is good for.”

Phil closes his eyes and isn't quite able to stop his sound of pain as Clint’s words pierce into the heart of him. 

It’s as though Quinn has dredged up everyone of Clint’s worst fears and insecurities and made them Clint’s reality. 

Fuck. 

It’s exactly that. 

“No, Pet. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“If… if it pleases you, Master,” Clint says doubtfully. 

Phil removes the ice packs and strokes his hand down the middle of Clint’s back and asks, “Is it okay if I remove the plug, Pet?”

It doesn’t look like it could possibly be comfortable and Phil berates himself for not noticing it sooner. 

“Yes, please Master,” Clint begs. 

He whimpers when Phil takes the base and tugs on it experimentally. He doesn’t want to take this too fast, especially not after seeing how wide just that little bit pulls Clint apart. He uses his free hand to rub slow, calming circles on the small of Clint’s back. 

“Master?” He asks timidly. 

“What is it, Pet?” Phil asks as he releases the plug. 

“May… may it wash away the come, when you’re done? Please, Master?”

“Oh, baby, of course,” Phil says, trying not to react to the pain Clint’s words cause, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I will always take care of you.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Phil keeps rubbing Clint’s back, trying to remember if he had seen lube in the aftercare kit. 

“Master?” 

“Yes, Pet?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to reset it?”

Phil stills, “What do you mean, Pet?” 

Cas had begged to not be reset but Clint’s asking for it and Phil’s sure he isn’t going to like the answer. 

“If— you said no more gifts but, if it would please you Master, your pet could kill itself for you?”

Gifts. Quinn has made death a gift. And at the end, that’s how Cas saw it, too. Cas, the angel with scarred wings who would rather die than live with what had been done to him, what had been made of him. 

Phil’s world ends for a second and he whites out, knowing only that he can’t lose Clint again. 

“ ** _Clinton Francis Barton_** ,” Phil Commands, heedless of Clint’s cries, using Clint’s full name to make the Order drill in as deep as possible. He feels Jean’s ghost Whispering in his ear, ‘ **The world is ours** ’; he lets the full weight of his Voice off its chain, wielding it with precision and power, “ ** _You will not kill yourself_**. _”_

“Yes! Yes, Master!” 

“ ** _You will not kill yourself_**. **_Say it_ ** **_,_ ** **_Pet_** ** _,_** _”_ the monster is free from it’s cage and swells within Phil, dark and terrible. 

_‘Our right is in our blood,’_ Jean’s words, the Phoenix’s words, echo, carrying her power even after death, her soul a twin flame to Phil’s fire, _‘We were born to Rule. I know you_ Feel the Hunger.’ 

And he does. He feels it like molten steel in his veins.

“Your pet will not kill itself, Master.”

He needs more, needs to see the Command take hold. Phil grabs the back of Clint’s neck and crouches down next to the bed, Ordering, “ ** _Look_** **_at_** **_me_** ** _,_** ** _Clint_**.”

Clint cries as he Obeys, looking into Phil’s eyes for the first time since their escape; he cowers, and Phil is frightening, “Yes, Master.”

“ ** _You will not kill yourself_**. **_Say_** **_it_** **_again_** ,” he Orders. The monster no longer struggles within Phil, it _is_ Phil.

**The world is ours.**

Clint stares deep into Phil’s eyes and swears, “It will not kill itself. It promises, Master. It’s death is yours and yours alone.”

 ** _The world is HIS._** He squeezes Clint’s neck and stares back into Clint’s eyes, so dilated that the blue is nearly swallowed whole by the back of his pupils. Phil keeps pushing his Voice, “ ** _Again_**. **_YOU_** **_WILL_** **_NOT_** **_KILL_** **_YOURSELF_**.”

There is no world without Clint

“Your pet will not kill itself, Master,” Clint sobs.

“ ** _AG—_** ,” Phil’s Voice fails him, strained to its limit for the first time in Phil’s life and he lets go of Clint, staggering away.

(The world is his.)

The beast is still there, telling him to Claim his submissive, to Claim the _world,_ as is his right. 

To take it all and Force the world to its knees before him.

He can’t lose Clint, not again; he had kept himself on too short leash before and look at what happened. 

Never again. 

He will never let _anything_ stand in his way when it comes to Clint. 

Clint is **_his_**. 

He starts to tear at his pants with a snarl, Driven to place the most primal Claim there is on his submissive; as he does so his knuckles rap against something hard and metallic in one of his pockets. 

He takes it out. It’s the buckle. The engraved words stretch out across the centuries:

AS YOU ARE MINE   
LET ME BE YOURS   
WHITHER THOU GOEST   
I WILL GO   
PARI PASSU

 _Pari passu_. 

Equal in all respects.

**The world is his.**

“ ** _YOU_** **_ARE_** **_MINE_** ,” Phil Grates out and tastes blood at the back of his throat.

 _Pari passu_.

Clint is his.

Equal in all respects.

HIS.

Equal in all respects.

 **_CLINT_**.

Phil falls to his knees with a choked out sob, wrapping his arms around himself, wanting to wrap his arms around Clint; to hold him and keep him safe, but he failed. He _failed_ and now even though Phil has him back he’s still gone and Phil can’t trust himself near him.

He hangs his head and weeps, afraid of what he’s willing to do; ashamed of what he hadn’t done. 

He feels it even still, the beast that is him, roiling beneath his skin. It would take nothing at all to let it take control; but he’s starting to think clearly again and knows it’s not what he should want. It’s not what Clint would want. 

He stands and turns to look at his sub.

Clint hasn’t moved from where Phil had pinned him to the bed and Phil has to turn away before he loses himself again, his Need hot and hard between his legs.

A few moments later he hears, “Master?”

“I’m not sorry,” Phil croaks out, “Maybe I should be. And maybe you’ll hate me for this, but I can’t be sorry. I can’t— I can’t lose you again.”

“Master?” Clint sounds confused, “It's yours Master; it belongs to you.”

But not by choice and some day, and much as it hurts him Phil hopes it will be sooner rather than later, Clint is going to come back to himself and realize all the ways Phil has failed him. 

And then the only thing in the world that will ever be able to take Clint away from Phil? Will. 

Phil will tear apart the world for Clint and then piece it back together just to suit his whims. He can and will do anything to keep Clint. 

Anything but force Clint to stay. 

Clint is his but for how long?

“For now.”

And that will have to be good enough. 

“M… Master?”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” Phil says, heading for the kitchen and a bowl of warm water, needing to wash away every last reminder of Quinn that he can, “And then we can get that thing out of you.”

He makes a promise to himself to never lose control that way again. 

A part of him thinks he should make a contingency plan; to tell Fury to have someone waiting with a bullet for him just in case, God forbid, Clint dies before he does. 

Or maybe he should skip Fury altogether. 

Wilson might do it, but he can be sentimental. 

Castle. Frank Castle is a man without sentiment.

He considers it, then rejects it. 

If he loses Clint again, the world can just fucking _burn_. 


	8. Chapter 8

Phil waits impatiently as the microwave heats up some water. He doesn’t want to leave Clint alone more than necessary. 

When he gets back to his submissive he leans in and kisses Clint’s cheek; a swift, stolen thing that’s only for himself. 

“Wh…?” Clint asks as Phil stands. 

He runs his fingers through his precious submissive’s hair and tells him, “It's going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise. We’re going to get through this together.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Up on your knees; spread your legs a little for me.”

Clint brings his knees under his body and then spreads his legs with a moan; the movement spreads his cheeks just enough that Phil can see the end of the plug. Clint keeps his wrists crossed over his head, turning them palms up as if offering Phil his submission and Phil feels his rough edges start to settle. 

Phil gets up on the bed on his knees behind Clint and rests one hand on Clint’s ass, letting him know exactly wear Phil is before he starts to pull on the plug, frowning as it stretches Clint wider and wider; Clint starts to whimper and then whine, getting louder as it keeps stretching and stretching. 

“Jesus. Hold on a second. I didn’t realize how big it was.”

Phil leans over the edge of the bed, still keeping one hand on Clint’s ass as a touchstone as he gets out the bottle of lube that has been thoughtfully included in the aftercare kit. He has to take away his hand to unseal it and then pours a little over his fingers. 

He places his dry hand lightly on the small of Clint’s back and then rubs his slick fingers around the plug. 

“Oh, Master,” Clint sighs.

“This may hurt a bit. I want you to relax as much as possible. If you want I can Talk you Down?” This will be so much easier on Clint if he can ride the pain from the depths of subspace. 

“Oh Master, yes please?”

Phil’s throat is nearly raw but he pushes past the pain of his ravaged throat, using the softest touch of his Voice he Says, “ _Down, Pet. Down as far as you want.”_

“Oh,” Clint moans, “Thank you, Master.”

Phil continues to rub lube in around the plug, easing his fingers in and around it and Clint moans again, his tone telling Phil it hurts, but in a good way. 

Once Clint’s hole and the plug are as slick as they’re going to get Phil starts twisting and pulling at the plug and even now it won’t slip free and Phil has to pull harder than he likes.

Phil’s quiet, “Shh, shhh, just a little more; it will be over soon, baby, just a little more,” are drowned out by Clint’s shout of pain as the thickest part pulls free. 

Phil tosses it aside, it can go in the trash later, and sits back on the bed, pulling Clint into the cradle of his lap. Phil rocks him as he cries, kissing the top of Clint’s head and murmuring, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you sweetheart. It’s over. I’ve got you.”

“Master?” Clint sniffs, then cries out, “Oh no, Master! Your pet is so sorry; it got slut juice on your shirt. Please, Master, please punish your w— your bad pet?”

Phil tenses up but manages not to squeeze Clint too tightly this time. 

He’s going to skin Ian Quinn alive. 

No. 

Fuck Quinn. 

He refuses to let that bastard take up any more real estate between him and Clint tonight. Comforting his sub is all that matters now. 

“No. I will never punish you for crying, Pet. You cry all you need to.”

Clint clings to Phil like a drowning man to a broken piece of flotsam and says, “Your… your pet is okay now, Master. Unless you would like it to cry more, Master?”

“No,” Phil says, managing by the grace of God to keep his tone even, “No, Pet, I don’t want you to cry; not if you don’t feel like crying.”

Clint feels so good in his arms but he wants to get this over with so that they can get ready for bed and maybe even cuddle properly, if Clint will allow it, “Do you still want me to wash you?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Is that a no? It’s so hard to tell what Clint actually wants and what he thinks Phil wants.

“Would you rather go to bed?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil sighs; he’s really starting to hate those words. 

If Clint is unwilling or unable to decide, it's up to Phil then. He’s pretty sure Clint will feel better being fully clean; if nothing else, Phil will feel better. 

“Dealer’s choice then. Back up on your knees, face down, Pet,” Phil eases Clint off his lap and stands beside him, letting Clint take his time. 

“Yes, Master,” Clint moves slowly, not in any teasing sense, almost more as if he’s reacquainting himself with how his body feels without the plug. He keeps his knees spread and rests his arms at his sides, elbows in close, resting his hands by his head. 

“Very good, Pet.”

Clint’s spine relaxes, which pushes his ass up as he says, “Thank you, Master.”

Phil uses his fingers first, feeling for any tears or other damage, and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds that while Clint’s asshole is red and swollen, it’s undamaged. 

He uses a warm washcloth to wipe away the lube and any cum that might still be leaking out of his submissive.

If they were at home, if this were his Clint and not the broken echo of the man he loves, he would use his mouth to soothe the inflamed ring of muscle, laving it with his tongue and placing sucking kisses over Clint’s hole, worshipping his sub as he deserves. 

Phil shakes off the selfish thought, using a fresh towel to wick away any remaining moisture and then getting some of the healing salve from the kit. 

It’s thick on his fingers and will do more to soothe Clint than his mouth would have anyway. 

Phil is careful and thorough, pushing the salve inside Clint’s abused hole and then using a couple fingers to spread it around his rim. He rubs circles around the edges and then gently thrusts his fingers in and out ensuring an evening coating of salve everywhere Phil can reach. 

Clint moans quietly and then starts to push back against Phil’s fingers. It’s the first sign of Clint actually taking what he wants and Phil feels a surge of lust and satisfaction, “Does that feel good, baby?”

“Yes, Master,” Clint purrs, fucking himself with Phil’s fingers; his asshole is loose and open as he thrusts back and then squeezes almost impossibly tight as he pulls away, “Oh. Oh, Master.”

The room comes more into focus and part of Phil thinks he should stop this, that he’s taking advantage of Clint, but that part is subsumed by his need to Claim his sub, to show Clint who he belongs to, who will Protect him and care for him and give him everything he needs. 

Phil’s waxing and waning erection his back, stiff against the fly of his cargo pants but it’s easy to ignore in favor of giving in to the demands of Clint’s body. 

With each of Clint’s thrusts Phil twists his fingers just the way Clint likes it, drawing out moan after moan, “Oh. Oh. Oh,” Clint’s trusts getting faster and faster as he braces himself with his still incredibly muscular forearms, pushing and taking and moaning. 

Phil climbs on the bed next to Clint to get a better angle, using his hand now to meet Clint’s thrusts and Clint starts to beg, “Oh, yes, Master. Unh, mmmm. Please —Oh! Please, Master? Oh, unf! Please?”

“Like that, baby? Like my fingers inside you? Like me filling you up?” His voice wrecked.

“Oh, oh Master,” Fuck, he’s so responsive. Clint has always been beautiful but never more so than when he's falling apart for Phil, “Yes, Master. So good, Master. Please, please fuck your pet.”

Phil leans over Clint’s body as he fucks him, biting the join between Clint’s neck and shoulder with that just right pressure exactly where and how Clint loves it best, “Oh, please? Please Master? Please fuck your pet? Please, mark it inside and out. It wants only your touch, Master.”

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you. Let me give you what you need, trust me to take care of you.”

Phil wraps his free hand around Clint’s leaking dick, stroking with the half twist that always brings Clint to the edge and Clint cries out, “Oh, Master!”

Phil sucks Clint’s perfect skin, marking him right over the pale indentations left from his bite and Clint begs, “Please, Master, may your pet come?”

“Yes, sweetheart, come. Come for me,” he growls into Clint’s ear, knowing that it never fails to set him off. 

“Oh, Master!” Clint yells as he comes over Phil’s fingers and Phil stays right there with him sheltering Clint with the curve of his body as Clint comes undone for him. 

When Clint is done shaking Phil carefully pulls out his fingers and wipes both his hands clean before lying down next to Clint and pulling him into a spooning position. 

Clint, taller and wider than Phil, was always a bit embarrassed to be the little spoon but would give in knowing how much Phil needs it and Phil likes to think Clint had learned to enjoy it just as much as Phil does. 

He curls his bedside hand up over Clint’s shoulder so that he can pet Clint’s hair off of his forehead and links the fingers of his other band with Clint’s. 

He kisses his mark and Clint hums, sounding content.

Clint’s breath starts to even out and he says, “Thank you, Master.”

“It was my pleasure, Pet,” Phil replies and tucks Clint's body in closer to Phil’s warmth, knowing that Clint will start to feel the chill of the room as he comes Up.

Before they can drift off to sleep like that, Phil asks, “Do you want to come all the way Up, or would you like to go to sleep while you are still a little Down?

“But Master, it is Up?”

Phil frowns, he can tell by the pliancy of Clint’s body that he’s still Down in that almost there place where he could go either way; just deep enough to be suggestable.

At least, that’s what staying Down always meant for the old Clint. Maybe he’s no longer able to languish there like he used to post scene? Phil hopes that’s not something else that’s been taken from him. 

“Come here,” Phil says, tugging Clint by the hand until he turns in Phil’s arms and is facing Phil. He keeps petting Clint’s hair and unlinks their fingers in order to tilt Clint’s face up. He still refuses to meet Phil’s eyes but that’s something they can address later. 

He studies Clint’s face and blinks away the tears that want to form at the ache he feels knowing he finally has his heart back, broken and torn as it is. He tilts Clint’s face side to side, up and then down. Looking over the bandages and bruising, seeing the way his eyes are still slightly dilated. Clint hasn’t been fully Up since Phil found him, but that can wait until tomorrow. 

He pressed a kiss to Clint’s forehead and Clint lets out a shocked gasp, “Master!” 

He doesn’t seem to be objecting, just surprised. Phil places his fingers under Clint’s chin and tilts his face back up, looking for answers he knows he won’t find. 

Clint closes his eyes and Phil brushes his thumb across Clint’s lip, careful not to bump into the split, and then places a chaste kiss to the uninjured side of his mouth. Before he can stop himself he kisses Clint again, just a caress of Phil lips against Clint’s but it’s slow and it’s sweet and it’s exactly what Phil needs to finally settle completely in his own skin. 

It wasn’t a scene, not really, but he’ll feel better if he can get Clint to eat something and drink a little more water before they go to sleep. It will help ward off any potential Drop and if nothing else it will help keep Phil from Dropping himself. 

“I want you to eat a little something.”

“But Master—”

“No. No arguments. It doesn’t have to be much but I don’t want you Dropping when you finally come all the way Up.”

“If it pleases you, Master,” Clint sulks, which honestly does more for Phil’s precarious sense of hope than anything else. 

Phil reaches over Clint and into the kit and pulls out a chocolate bar. He’s sure he saw one of those protein bars that Clint loves in there, but he can’t seem to find it. At least the candy is of higher quality than he would have expected and he’s impressed once again with the apartment’s provisions. 

He sits up against the headboard, taking Clint with him, saying, “Come here,” as he brings Clint’s leg over his and pulls Clint until he’s lying half on top of Phil. 

Phil unwraps the chocolate and breaks off a piece, holding it in front of Clint’s mouth.

Clint’s eyes dart down and away from the candy and he asks, “But Master, shouldn’t you eat first?” 

Phil sighs. Clint isn’t wrong in that Phil should probably have some, too, and though the ‘first’ part rankles he’s learning not to argue about little things. He smiles and says, “If it pleases you, Pet.”

The chocolate feels good against his sore throat. Once he’s swallowed he breaks off another bite and holds it up for Clint to eat, “Your turn.”

Clint cautiously licks at the chocolate and then moans. He licks it again before carefully taking it in his teeth. Clint continues to make pleased moans as he closes his eyes and savors the candy. 

When Clint finally swallows Phil places another piece against his lips.

“Master?” He asks, wide eyed. 

“Eat.”

“If it pleases you, Master?”

“It does. Very much,” Clint moans softly at Phil’s words, “It will make me very happy.”

“Oh, Master,” Clint says, taking the second bite. 

The rest of the bar goes easier, for a certain definition of easy. After the first couple bites Clint starts using his tongue playfully, catching the tips of Phil’s fingers; at Phil’s quiet, involuntary groan, he grows bolder until he’s actively licking and moaning around Phil’s fingers, drawing out hums of pleasure from Phil. 

It takes all of Phil’s considerable will to not rut his hard dick against the heat of Clint’s hip. 

They’re nearly done with the bar when Clint begs, “M...Master? Your pet… it… it can’t take any more. Please?”

He would like Clint to finish the bar and asks, “Can you manage two more bites, Pet?”

Clint nods and licks his lips, saying, “Yes, Master.”

Phil’s eyes nearly roll back into his head as on the next piece Clint takes Phil’s fingers all the way into his mouth, spearing his tongue between them and then sucking as he pulls his mouth away. 

He still takes his time chewing, holding the chocolate in his mouth as long as possible before swallowing. 

The last bite is even worse, fraying Phil’s control as Clint bobs his head up and down on Phil’s fingers, moaning as he sucks and twists his tongue. 

When Clint has finished, Phil barely keeps his voice from cracking as he says, “If you're feeling up to it we should get ready for bed,” and if he has visions of them naked and in each other’s arms that’s between him and God. 

“Oh, yes, Master. Thank you, Master!” 

Clint eagerly reaches for Phil’s pants and as much as he wants what Clint’s been offering, now isn’t the time. 

It may never be the time. 

He holds Clint back by his wrist, “Somehow I don’t think you’re helping me get changed.”

Clint’s eyebrows furrow, “Do… Do you not want to use your pet’s mouth Master?”

He does, God does he. But not like this. Never like this. 

**The world is his**.

“No, Pet,” though he wonders what it could really hurt. Clint obviously wants to; Phil hasn’t coerced him into this. 

“But Master—“

Though maybe he has seduced Clint and in a way that’s almost worse. Phil has to do what is right for Clint, his own urges be damned. 

“I said, ‘no’, Pet.”

“If.. if it pleases you, Master.”

It would be so easy; which is why Phil has to refuse. He gets out of bed and groans as his dick makes its thoughts on the matter known. 

Phil walks around the bed to his duffle bag and says, “I didn’t pack much by way of pajamas, but I think these will fit you.”

He pulls out his grey sweatpants and a white undershirt. They’ll be a little small on Clint’s larger frame and Phil fondly recalls the kick Clint always gets out of wearing Phil’s old college sweats around the house, taking impish glee in the way they show off his body and taunting Phil’s possessive streak. 

He shakes off the memory and says, “We’ll get you some real clothes in the morning.”

“Master?” 

“Pet?” Phil smiles, expecting another ‘but master’ is forthcoming. 

“Your pet doesn’t understand, Master.”

“I know you don’t, Pet,” Phil sighs, “I’m really hoping that one day you will. Now, put these on.” 

Phil sets the clothes on the bed next to Clint.

“But Master, it hasn’t earned them.”

Phil tried to decide how to respond, finally asking, “What do you think you’ve earned then?”

“Master?” Clint asks with an air of trepidation. 

“Go on. I promise not to get mad. I say you should wear them, you obviously disagree—”

“Master! Your pet would never—” leave it to Clint to disagree about disagreeing. The more he looks for it the more he sees the tiny sparks in his sub that say ‘Clint Barton’.

“I promise you, you will never be in trouble for disagreeing with me.” 

Quite the opposite, but Clint isn’t ready to hear that right now. 

“If it pleases you, Master.”

“It does. Now, I’m not letting this go. What do you think you’ve earned?”

“It… It’s loincloth, Master?”

“After everything you’ve done tonight, you think you should only get what you already had?”

“Master, it hasn’t done anything to earn—”

“You’ve made me very, very happy. More than I will ever be able to tell you.”

“Maybe… another inch, Master?”

“So,” Phil says, knowing that he’s won, “You do agree that you deserve more than you had. Now we’re just negotiating.”

“But Master—”

“Shush. Let me finish and then you can ‘but Master’ me all you want. Okay?”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil sighs, knowing that’s as good as he will get, but as frustrated as that phrase makes him feel, it’s good to see Clint’s stubborn streak shine through.

He starts to list all of Clint’s accomplishments, “You're trying very hard not to call yourself anything derogatory,” Clint squirms, “You were were good for your bath,” he makes a small sound of distress, “You were very good while I bandaged you up, you were so brave while getting that awful plug out, and you came apart beautifully from me afterwards. I would say all that deserves quite a bit don’t you?”

“If it pleases you, Master,” Clint says, obviously trying not to argue but having something he wants to say. 

Phil tries baiting him, “No ‘but Master’?”

“But Master, your pet keeps failing you.”

There it is.

“I told you, I don’t expect you to be perfect. I just want you to try.”

“It… it wants to be good for you, Master. It is trying, it promises.”

“Good. Put them on.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says and pulls on the shirt.

Phil strips down to white his briefs and then puts on a fresh undershirt. 

By the time he’s done changing he sees Clint has moved from the bed to the floor into what Phil’s started to think of as his Leash position: sitting back on his heels with his knees spread and his palms held out like he’s offering to give or take something. 

Phil has to bite back the possessively pleased moan that wants to escape seeing Clint in his clothes and he feels his dick stiffen impossibly harder at the sight. 

His shirt stretches across Clint’s shoulders and arms but is loose around his waist and leaves his belly button and treasure trail bare. The sweats ride low on his hips leaving just a little of that damned waist chain visible and they don’t quite reach Clint’s ankles. 

Like this most of Clint’s injuries and marks are hidden, one of the few exceptions being Phil’s mark on the join of Clint’s shoulder. There’s the bite on his hip, the dark bands at his wrists, and the silver in his ears, but the rest, the broken nose and bruised jaw are so typically Clint that Phil can almost forget where all the marks but his came from. 

Clint gives Phil a once over and then closes his eyes. Phil comes over to him and runs his fingers through Clint’s hair. Clint pushes up into Phil’s hand and hums in pleasure. 

**His.**

Phil wants more than anything to grab Clint’s hair and pull Clint’s face against his dick, to have Clint suck him through his underwear until Phil’s shaking with need; until— No. Phil lets go of Clint’s hair and takes a step back 

He turns on the light on the far nightstand and then turns off the overhead light before saying, “Okay. Teeth, bathroom, and then sleep. Come on.”

Clint starts to crawl behind him towards the bathroom and Phil turns back to say, “Stand up, Pet; I told you, I’d prefer you walked.”

Clint looks miserable as he stands and says, “Yes, Master.”

God, maybe Phil should let him crawl?

“Master, may it ask for punishment?” 

Phil huffs. Clint knows Phil doesn’t like it when he asks to be punished and so is trying to get around that by asking to be allowed to ask. 

He loves Clint so much that it hurts.

“Clever. No.” 

Phil pulls out a new toothbrush from one of the bathroom drawers, unwrapping it and handing Clint before opening his shaving kit and taking out his own toothbrush and some toothpaste. 

He looks at his reflection and scratches his beard as he once again debates shaving. 

Clint turns on the water and reaches for the bar of soap; Phil grabs him by the wrist, pulling his hand back. 

Phil wonders if he’ll ever be numb to all the ways Clint’s been trained to act and react. He’s not sure if it’s good or bad that every new thing causes that surge of rage and he knows Clint’s not the only one who will need therapy when they get home. 

Phil puts a little of the toothpaste on Clint’s toothbrush and then lets go of his hand. 

“Master?”

“Brush, Pet.”

Clint hums in pleasure as he brushes and when it looks like he isn’t going to stop brushing Phil says, “That’s enough, Pet,” as he rinses his own toothbrush.

“I’ll use the bathroom down the hall and let you use this one. It’s been a long night; I want you to get to sleep as soon as you can, even if I’m not back yet.”

“If it pleases you, Master.”

Phil debates what to do about his erection; it hasn’t abated since Clint put on his clothes but masturbating feels wrong and he ends up relying on breathing techniques and a little meditation until it eventually subsides. 

When he’s done going to the bathroom and washing his hands he checks his throat; it isn’t as red as he was afraid it would be and he wonders what his recovery time might be if he let loose his Voice unchecked, if he were to start pushing his limits everyday. 

**The world is his.**

It doesn’t matter. He isn’t going to let that happen. 

When Phil gets back to the bedroom Clint isn’t in bed as expected; instead he’s half asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed, curling slightly and resting his head on his arms.

Phil feels that seed of helpless rage as he sees that Clint hasn’t even grabbed a blanket or pillow. 

Clint blinks himself a wake and then hunches his shoulders, as if expecting a blow. Phil is extra gentle with his hands as he guides Clint, saying, “Up, Pet. In bed with me.”

“Yes, Master,” Clint says, his voice burred with sleep. 

Phil turns out the light and tucks his arm under Clint’s pillow, he uses the other to pull Clint close, his front to Clint’s back, his hand spread over the bare skin between the bottom of Clint’s shirt (Phil’s shirt) and the top of his sweats. 

He breathes in the warm clean smell of Clint’s skin, the smell of home, and pulls him tighter until Phil can’t feel where he ends and Clint begins. 

“Goodnight, Pet.”

“Goodnight, Master.”

‘ _As you are mine, let me be yours. Whither thou goest, I will go. Pari Passu_ ,’ Phil thinks, _‘Equal in all respects.’_

Once Phil’s reality, now a dream, one he still hopes to make come true, some day. 

It doesn’t matter what they’ve been through, they’re together again and Phil is never letting go. 

Phil holds Clint tight and whispers, “Mine.”

At least until the day Clint chooses to walk away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to this series will start tomorrow; I’m planning on continuing to post two chapters a day; the full arc should be completed by the end of the week.
> 
> No worries though, I am hard at work on my Charity Hawktion fic (I’m really happy with it so far, and hope my recipient will be too), and then I have 3-4 more WiPs in various stages from almost complete to outlined plot bunny.
> 
> Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me!

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry if this is repetitive.) Now that this series is complete I’m adding in my fan space information if you want to follow me anywhere.
> 
> Since I’m not sure which fic in the series is drawing everyone in from, I’m going to c/p my info here.
> 
> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore. I would still love it if you followed me, I will follow back, I always love making new fandom friends.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated.
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
> Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia (am I doing this right?)


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